


Winter Driving

by AikiBriarRose



Series: The Salvation of James Buchanan Barnes [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fluff and Crack, Hydra (Marvel), Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2018-12-23 05:26:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 42,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11983107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AikiBriarRose/pseuds/AikiBriarRose
Summary: Dimension 20001 - 3 years prior toHalf-LifeeventsAfter the fiasco of the helicarriers, the Winter Soldier is on the run, but needs money to survive while he tries to piece together the parts of his life that he remembers. He takes an assassination job and sets up a getaway driver to take him across the US so he can escape on a ship from Los Angeles.You are the professional driver he hires. You drive for a living, paid to carry whatever package is handed you, no questions asked. You've carried people before. You've crossed the country before to deliver packages. You've never had to evade members of the Avengers before and you've never met anyone like the Winter Soldier.MCU Timeline: Take place between Captain America: The Winter Soldier and Avengers: Age of Ultron





	1. A Confident Driver

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Series will contain violence - guns, knives, fists and feet; death and destruction guaranteed; some sex likely - definitely/assuredly; swearing/cursing/foul language ahead; old songs, strange food, random scenic views, and heartbreak; not in all parts and not all at once but be warned...buckle up, it’s gonna be a bumpy ride!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: [14 Tips for Winter Driving](https://www.outsideonline.com/1920576/14-tips-winter-driving) by Berne Broudy  
>  Snow and ice are no match for a confident driver.  
>  Confidence in your skills and your vehicle is everything when it comes to winter driving. Accidents happen when you second guess yourself. It’s time wasted when you’re in a skid that you need to respond to."

The man slid into the backseat of your Jeep Rubicon so quietly you almost didn’t hear him. He filled up the space back there with even more shadow than the evening lights were casting. His hand slid between the front seats, gloved and holding a small package. This is what you were waiting for. You take it and pull your knife, popping open the blade to slit the seam. The man didn’t flinch.

“Come sit in the front seat,” you say, not meeting his eyes. Customers usually didn’t like you to make the first move. 

“I prefer it back here,” came his murmur, tinged with some European accent you couldn’t quite place. 

“Yeah, but it looks suspicious,” is your reply. “I’m not some damn Uber driver.” You aren’t really paying him that much attention at the moment. The package contains two parts, one for you and one for him. You quash any curiosity about the IDs and credit cards included, as your only real concern should be if they are passable. 

“Uber?” he asks, that accent fuzzing the word just a little.

“Yeah, you know, like a taxi.” you hold his cards over your shoulder to him. He takes them in his gloved hand, the worn leather smooth against your fingertips.

“Oh, yeah, a taxi. No, I, I understand.” His words were softer now, almost confused. The back door opens and shuts, then he’s in the front seat, larger than expected, filling up the space there. 

The way he sits, it’s like he doesn’t want to touch you. No big deal. Most times, you don’t want any of your clients to touch you. You look around, checking the area for any signs of trouble. You’d double parked outside of Grand Central Station on 42nd street, knowing you’d blend in with the traffic and the crowds and picking someone up wouldn’t look unusual. Another reason to have him in the front seat, covering the fact that you preferred to keep an eye on your riders and what their hands were up to. 

Car lights, street lights, they all competed with the sunset and the stores around you, making you part of the crowd on this Friday night. The man next to you looked out of place here, wearing an old military coat on this hot summer’s evening. A beat cop walking your way caught your eye.

“Hey, lean over here,” you mutter to him, hoping he’d cooperate with your ruse. He leaned over as asked and you cup his cheek in your hand, noting the scruff on his jaw and the dark eyebrows over eyes that matched the color of the summer sky. The cop was getting closer and looking at your Jeep, double parked as was customary around here, but with occupants he could harass. A smile twitched your mouth, causing his eyes to widen slightly. 

Before he could pull back, you lay a full liplock on him, capturing his mouth with yours. His lips are full and soft, hesitant until your intent becomes clear. He tries to pull back, but with your hand on his jaw you keep in contact with him.

“Unh-unh.” you mutter against his lips and run your hand down to hold his neck. He seems to catch your drift, lifting his hand to your shoulder and returning the kiss. Heat burns through you from your lips down to your groin. It’s been awhile since you’d had any fun but this was even more than that. This man could kiss!

The cop taps on the window with his stick and you break off the kiss, reluctantly. The man bows his head against your shoulder, hiding his face. Rolling down the window from your driver’s side, you peer out at the cop taking in the scenery.

“Sorry, officer. Just picked up my boyfriend from deployment. Haven’t seen him in over a year.” Your breathless words hang in the evening air as the man’s hand slides down your side to rest on your hip. Good thing he’s playing along, you think. This nosy cop looks like he’s enjoying way too much what he’s seeing. Pervert.

The cop nods. “You kids go get a room. Quit blocking traffic.” He chuckles at his words, self-congratulatory on his implied joke. 

“Got one, sir,” came the man’s response, surprising you with the sudden acquisition of a Western drawl. “Just had to say hello first, if y’know what I mean.” 

From the corner of your eye you can see him watching over his shoulder, like he can see the cop watching him. His arm under you is hard, tensed between your body’s weight and the console that separates the front seats. His hand on your hip is relaxed, even as his shoulders shift in readiness. The cop nods and grins, his imagination and eyes taking you in and giving you the once-over, leaving you with a serious case of the creeps. 

“Well, then,” the cop intones, his grin making his words fall out of his mouth laced with innuendo, “you kids have a good night.” He salutes you with his stick, even as he undresses you with his eyes. Turning away, he headed down the street past the station entrance, looking for other citizens to harass. 

The man sits back in his seat, shifting around for a minute to get comfortable. You smile and turn forward, allowing him a moment to get settled. You couldn’t see anything in the growing darkness, but the thought of having given your rider a stiffy has you stifling a chuckle. What a way to get a tip!

Waiting to get into traffic on 42nd heading northeast you hear him make a scoffing sound. Side-eying him, you lick your lips. “What?”

“Nothing, just…” he pauses.

“Just what?” you ask, knowing he was about to say something about your driving.

“How old are you?” he asks even as he avoids your glare.

“Old enough to know when to mind my business,” your reply comes out snarky, harsher than you intended. New York always makes you this way, especially at night. Your expertise is the open roads, not gridlock traffic. 

The grin he gives you catches you off-guard. It’s boyish, impish, mischievous even. Not something normally seen on someone like him. Least that’s from your first impressions of him. That look he’d had on his face at first, the cold ruthlessness of someone you wouldn’t want after you, was gone like it had never existed. 

“What’s so funny?” you drawl, affecting the same accent he’d used earlier. 

“You should go…” he started, then stopped when you pressed your lips together tightly. 

You had guessed it, he was going to tell you how to do your job. Despite the cute smile, you weren’t about to take this nonsense from him. No one told you how to drive. 

“I know what I am doing,” you state tersely. “I’m the professional here. Do I tell you how you do your job? Not that I know, or want to know anything about what you’re doing here in New York, but you get what I am saying to you, right?” You glance over at him. 

He looks hurt. Breathing deeply, lips pinched together, you count to ten. “Fine, tell me a better way to go. Lemme guess, you’re from around here.” From the corner of your eye you see him relax and smile. Damn, why does it have to be a cute smile? You chide yourself for being such a sucker. 

In less time than you had planned out, you are in the Lincoln Tunnel headed to New Jersey. Relaxing as traffic crept its way through, you see him checking the mirrors and looking tense again. 

“Relax, man,” you chide him now, “we’re ahead of schedule. This part always takes the longest, least it feels like it.” You pop some gum in your mouth and start chewing, working it to get it where you can blow some bubbles. It helped you relax. You offer him some, but he shakes his head, still tense, eyes darting everywhere. Hoping to get him to calm down, you ask him the most important question you can think of.

“What do I call you?”

“Hmm?” his attention had been elsewhere, his eyes shadowed as though lost in thought. He glances at the cards you’d handed him earlier, pulling them from the front breast pocket of his jacket. “Buckminster Fuller,” he reads. The name brings a wry smile to his lips. 

Pushing the memory of that kiss from earlier away from your gutter-prone mind, you shake your head. “Unh-uh, no way. I am not calling you Buckminster. Lemme see that.” 

He hands you the driver’s license. It shows him as being from Cambridge, Massachusetts and listed his birthdate as July 1st, 1983. You wonder how close that was, as that had him older than you by nearly a decade. Still, the card with his face shows his name to be Buckminster Fuller. That makes you smile a bit. Chalk one up for creativity on whoever made the cards. 

“Okay, I see what happened there. Good on them. But I’m gonna have to shorten that down. I can’t be trying to remember that mouthful every time I want your attention.” You were hoping for a smile, but he just seemed more restless. Handing the card back, you smirk. “I’m gonna call you Bucky.” 

The startled look in his eyes was interesting but all he did was nod. “What do I call you?” came his softly spoken question.

“Dani,” you quip, not yet ready to give him your real name. “Dani California, you know, like the song,” you prompted when he didn’t do anything but nod. He shakes his head.

“No, I don’t.”

“Hunh, well, okay.” You drop the subject and turn on some music, starting off with the Red Hot Chili Peppers. It was one of their older albums, but you’d been raised on the old stuff so it calmed you down to hear the familiar beat. 

He didn’t relax any, instead shifting around in his seat like he’s being bitten by ants. This goes on for several minutes until he’s getting on your nerves. You’re about to tell him to sit still when a large shadowy shape swoops past overhead, momentarily blocking the light. You both duck and peer upward through the windshield.

“What the fuck is that?” you exclaim, gripping the steering wheel. Ahead in the distance you see a bird shaped drone hovering over a black SUV. At the sight of the drone, the man ducks and looks like he is about to jump from the car. It was two parts not wanting to draw attention to yourself and one part not wanting to lose this lucrative job that makes you grab the sleeve of his paramilitary jacket. 

“Hey, don’t jump. If you run from it, whoever’s in control will catch the movement and you’ll be caught.” His eyes grow stern at that but you stumble on. If someone was tracking him, they could take you out as a side job and no one would think twice about it. It’s feeling more and more like you’ve jumped off into the deep end of the pool. Time to sink or swim.

The man sits back, his cap pulled down to hide his eyes. “What do you suggest we do?”

“Wait it out. Not like cops can really get down here. Besides...” you begin, mostly talking just to fill the silence. He interrupts you.

“I’m not worried about cops. The ones that are after me are much more dangerous,” he grimaces and looks out the back window. “On both sides.”

“Fuuuuuck!” you mutter under your breath. This was only the first of many times you found yourself saying that.


	2. Recalibrating Expectations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: 14 Tips for Winter Driving by Berne Broudy
> 
> In winter—your traction is reduced to a fraction of what it is in fair weather. When you’re driving in winter, you need to recalibrate your expectations about how long it will take you to stop, how quickly your car will respond when you turn the wheel. “...do know how to make your car’s safety features work for you.” To become a winter driving pro, invest in the proper tools, such as snow tires, and in yourself by practicing real world skills.
> 
>  
> 
> Grand Central Station, NYC to Allentown, PA to Charlotte, NC to Atlanta, GA

Traffic is slow in the Lincoln Tunnel and your rider is getting more and more fidgety. You can only hope he settles down once you reach the open road. You’ve never quit a job, but some riders made you want to charge more. This one might be in that group. 

Your train of thought is interrupted by the sound of bus brakes up ahead squealing in protest, followed by a ground-shaking thump. Traffic comes to an abrupt halt, making your rider jump in his seat. 

“Da fuuuu,” you mutter, stopping the Jeep as close to the guy in front of you as you can. Your rider, ‘Bucky’ you remind yourself, opens his door.

“Hey, you should stay inside,” you protest, only to be met by that stern look, the one that says to mind your business. You stop talking.

“I’m gonna go check out what’s happening up there,” he states, like he’s stepping out for a quick walk up the block. 

You grab his arm, hooking his elbow and stopping him. When he glares at you over his shoulder, without a word you point to the catwalk clinging to the side of the tunnel. When he nods, you give him your best smile.

“Find me at the end of the tunnel, k.” The words pop out before you can stop them. The relief you feel when he nods and slips out the door is a surprise. Once he is gone, you allow yourself to consider how hard his arm had been under your hand. Almost like he was wearing armor or something, you think, then shake your head and go back to looking at the traffic ahead of you. 

Your gaze is turned ahead in time to catch the sight of two shadowy figures slipping from the black SUV where the bird drone had hovered earlier. They move around the curve of the tunnel and out of sight, same as Bucky had. The sound of a motorcycle coming up between the cars behind you brings your gaze around in time to see someone zip by on the right. You can’t see his face, but as he passes, a glint of metal from his back triggers a recent memory of the news footage from down near Washington DC a couple of days ago. 

Why Captain America would be in the Lincoln Tunnel on a bike is beyond you, but now your curiosity is itching. Tempting as it is to jump out and climb onto the catwalk to go see, you don’t want to leave your Jeep. Traffic still isn’t moving, but that didn’t mean people wouldn’t be trying to do stupid things while everyone waited. That thought made you reach under your dash and check the Glock you had in its holster under there. Safety on, you unsnap the strap holding it in, just in case. 

More sounds echo back from around the bend, breaking glass and screeching metal, then the rapid burst of gunfire, making you jump. Great, now the cops will be showing up and it’ll be hours until you’re out of here. You lean forward in your seat and turn on the police scanner mounted under your satellite radio. It’s combined with a CB radio, but with a flick of the scan button, it picks up the chatter as the officials converge on the area. 

A thought pops into your mind and you turn around in your seat, pulling open the duffle bag in the seat behind you. Finding an overly large Henley style shirt, you grab a water bottle and a towel and set everything in the front seat. Instinct and experience told you that if your rider did catch up to you on the other end of the tunnel, he might need these things. After a moment of consideration, you move the items to your lap, unsure how much blood there might be if, no - when he gets back. 

An hour later, after more loud and unusual sounds from the far end of the tunnel and motorcycle cops showing up from behind to go around the bend, traffic finally starts to move again, if rather slowly. This was good as people had started to leave their cars, despite cops sending them back again and again. You shake your head at these New York and Jersey residents and their lack of fear or common sense, just glad to be moving again and ready for your curiosity to be answered.

It doesn’t take as long as you expected to get up where a bus was being removed in the outside lane, still over on its side with all the windows busted out. The far wall is blackened and the tile cracked and broken due to being riddled with bullet holes. Worry gnaws at your gut as you pass, wondering if Bucky had made it out of there okay. For reasons unknown, you are certain he’s still alive. The question was whether he was wounded and how much extra work you would have evading officials and whatever others were after him. 

Reaching the end of the tunnel and seeing city lights against the darkened skyline, you pass out into the night air, only to be startled by a thump on the roof of your Jeep. The passenger door flies open and your rider slips inside, hardly out of breath. His eyes meet yours, wide open and oddly excited, pupils enlarged to hide most of the blue. You can’t do more than grin as you’re moving faster in traffic now, accelerating up with the rest of the drivers that are excited to be on their way into Weehawken. 

“I have some water and a clean shirt,” you say, handing him the towel you had laid in your lap. He looks surprised but takes the towel and dabs at his lip. After a moment, you hand him the shirt. 

Taking his coat off is a bit of a struggle but he manages in short order. You can't watch, much as you'd like to, as you're busy watching traffic and making sure you take the right exits. The sound of buckles and straps being undone has you curious enough to sneak a peak in time to catch a glimpse of metal and a broad, muscular chest as he slides the shirt down over well-defined abs. It's a tight fit, not that you mind, but you make a mental note to stop somewhere down the road for more clothes. 

A sigh comes from your passenger, followed by the thump and jangle of something hitting the back floor. His gloved left hand comes into your lap to grab the water, leaving an oddly tense feeling in your gut. You hear the bottle open and the sounds of drinking then another sigh. You’ve gotten onto the Garden Parkway and settled into traffic, so you glance over to see what he's doing. He's sleeping, to your astonishment. 

It's a relief, really. After the tunnel and that wild look he had in his eyes, to see him asleep helps you relax and get back into your rhythm. You turn down the scanner and turn up the radio, setting it to a soft jazz satellite station and head over to Allentown and the connection to the highway to Atlanta.

Just under six hours later, he awakens as you're pulling into the parking lot of the Christiansburg, Virginia Walmart. 

“What are we doing? Why are we stopping?” His questions would be normal for someone just waking from a long nap, except for the suspicion and anxiety you hear in his voice.

“Time and past time for a pitstop,” you reply. “I went longer than normal, but now I really need to stop. Besides,” you give him a smile meant to put him at ease, “you could use some more clothes and other stuff. Not to mention we can stock up on some groceries.”

“Groceries?” He looks at the large blue and tan building in disbelief. “Here?”

Strange as it is to you that he doesn't seem to know what's inside a Walmart, you blow it off as proof that he's most likely from another country. You exit the Jeep and motion for him to follow. 

“Yes, here. Along with clothes and tools and just about anything else you might need.” You answer him as you head toward the doors. This ought to be entertaining, you think, as the doors slide open. You make it past the double set of doors with Bucky by your side but once you step into the main aisle leading into the store, he stops. You turn and find him staring out at all the goods stocked in the store, mouth open, eyes wide.

“Hey, hey,” you step in front of him, waving your hand in his face, trying to get his attention, “come on, let’s go. We can look around if you like.”

He looks at you then, a look so eager and joyful it makes you question everything you’d seen up to this point.

“Can we?’ His smile is so large and happy that you laugh in return and take him by the hand. Heading into the store you are glad it’s nearing 3:30 AM and that the only people here tonight are the weirdos and strange people that prefer the night for their activity.


	3. Slow Your Speed...Lengthen Your Stopping Distance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: 14 Tips for Winter Driving by Berne Broudy  
> According to Spitzner, whether you have all-wheel drive (AWD), four-wheel drive (4WD), front-wheel drive (FWD), or rear-wheel drive (RWD), the skills you need to hone for winter driving are the same. The only advantage that 4WD and AWD cars have in winter is they accelerate faster from a stop. But 4WD and AWD vehicles don’t turn or stop better than two-wheel drive. So, even if you have an AWD vehicle with snow tires, you still need to slow your speed and lengthen your stopping distance.
> 
>  
> 
> [Grand Central Station, NYC to Allentown, PA to Charlotte, NC to Atlanta, GA](https://www.google.com/maps/dir/Grand+Central+Terminal,+East+42nd+Street,+New+York,+NY/Allentown,+Pennsylvania/Atlanta,+GA/@37.051076,-81.266649,986172m/data=!3m1!1e3!4m20!4m19!1m5!1m1!1s0x89c25a21fb011c85:0x37513b7f1821408b!2m2!1d-73.9772294!2d40.7527262!1m5!1m1!1s0x89c439929f4adce1:0xeaf9df4b246824a1!2m2!1d-75.4901833!2d40.6084305!1m5!1m1!1s0x88f508c2984894e7:0xa59c4ec70587513e!2m2!1d-84.338429!2d33.8730946!3e0)

You end up following Bucky as he goes up and down the aisles, touching and looking at all the food, then on to the household items such as paper plates and cleaning supplies. He winds around the clothes racks in all the departments, examining items like he’s never seen them before. 

The women’s section for bras and panties had him blushing and interested like a man coming in from the desert to find a lake he can swim in. Several times you catch him looking at you from the corner of his summer blue eyes, like he is taking your measurement for whatever piece of lingerie he is holding in his hands. Your blush when he catches you catching him look at you is enough to make him laugh out loud. You giggle in return while wondering why he looks so surprised at his own laugh. 

In the men’s department you convince him to pick out some clothes. He reluctantly looks at pants and shirts then looks embarrassed when you ask him if he knows what size underwear he needs. This seems rather odd compared to his earlier behavior. After a couple of tries to get him to let you hold up pants to his waist, you let out an exasperated sigh.

“What is up with you, Buck?” you blurt out, tossing the pants over the nearest rack. “Do you not want me to help you with this?” The words came out harsher than you intended and you blush a bit at his abashed expression. 

Bucky looks up at you from beneath the rim of his cap, his eyes filled with worry and, surprisingly, what appears to be shame. He shrugs, hands out. “I’m just not used to having dames, I mean girls, n-no…” he stutters to a stop, then starts again, “I’ve never been shopping with a woman helping me.” He presses his lips together as though he is refusing to elaborate more. 

Studying him for a moment, you come to a decision. “Okay, I tell you what,” you say, holding his gaze with your own, “I’ll find one of the workers to come help you, a guy worker,” you hold up your finger to stop him from protesting, “and while you find some clothes, I’ll go get the other stuff you need.”

“Other stuff?” His eyebrows crinkle together and you are again left wondering why he seems lost amongst all this normal life routine. 

“Yeah, deodorant, toothbrush, toothpaste, etc. You know - STUFF.” Shaking your head, you walk over a couple of aisles to a man you had seen earlier that was stocking shelves in the housewares section.

“Hi, um, yeah, hello?” He looks at you, his expression saying volumes on people bothering him while he's busy. You force yourself to continue instead of walking away like you normally would. “Can you help me? My friend needs someone to help him with picking out clothes.”

The man looks at you, confusion in his expression for a moment, his head tilted to the side. Then he nods in agreement. “Da, da. I mean yes, I can help you friend find clothes.” He gives you an eager smile and motions you towards the place where you left Bucky. His accent is familiar to you, reminding you of your mother.

You look at his name tag. It said Gregory, but with that accent, you knew how to address him. "Mulțumesc, Grigore. Este foarte bine ca tu să ne ajuți cu asta.” The sound of Romanian coming from you makes him give you an even larger smile. Together, you go over to where Bucky is waiting patiently. 

“Bucky, this is Gregory. He’s gonna help you pick out some clothes and underwear, k.” You smile at them as they shake hands. “I’ll be over in the bath goods if you need me.”

You spend a little longer in the deodorant aisle than you intended, smelling the many different scents of the men’s products, trying to decide what would smell best on Bucky. The toothpaste, toothbrush, and other items such as shampoo and conditioner, had all been easy enough to pick out, but scents were personal. About the time you decided you’d have to bring him over here to pick out his own, he shows up at the end of the aisle, chatting happily with Gregory in Romanian, much to your surprise. 

“Oh good,” you blurt out as they stopped talking, “I was just about to come get you. Which of these do you like better?” You thrust four different deodorants at Bucky. Gregory chuckles and pats Bucky on the shoulder, calling him a lucky man and wishing him good luck before going back to his work. Bucky gives you a weird look and drops the pile of clothes in his arms into the cart. Taking the tubes, he looks at them, then at you. 

Frowning at his perplexed look, you pull off the top of one of the stick deodorants and remove the cover protecting the product, then hold it up to his nose. He sniffs and wrinkles his nose at the scent, shaking his head. You replace the cover and top, smiling at his reaction.

“Good, I don't like that either,” you say with a chuckle. Placing it back on the shelf, you watch out the corner of your eye as he checks out the other three. Three turns into nearly all of them, his nose wrinkle making you smile every time. Finally he settles on one that is unscented in a gel, giving you a smile like he’s made the biggest decision of his life as he sets it in the cart. 

Shaking your head, you drag him around the store again, this time placing some quick food and snacks in the cart as well as bottled water, energy drinks and Gatorade. He follows along, eyes wide as he watches you shop. At the checkout stand, he looks blown away when you choose the self-check section and start ringing up your items. After several items have gone into bags, he taps you on the arm. 

“They just let you do this yourself?” he whispers. 

You smile and chuckle. If he isn’t from out of the country, he definitely hasn’t been out on his own very much, you decide. “Yeah,” you mutter, continuing to ring and bag, “it saves them money if they don’t have to pay someone to do this for you.”

“Oh,” is all he said. You look up in time to see a mixed look of shock and insult cross his face, staying until he catches you looking at him. Color touches his cheeks and he turns to look at the candy display next to the register. 

As you’re finishing up scanning and bagging the last few items from your cart, you notice a group of young men, younger than you, gathering at the door. Looking around for the cashier, you catch her heading the other direction. Turning back to grab the bags from the platform, you notice Bucky has them in his sight as well. 

The hard look has returned to his face, wiping all trace of that funny smile and relaxed attitude away. Even the uncertainty is gone. Without looking at you, he touches your arm.

“Take the cart directly to the vehicle,” he orders you quietly, his accent thicker now, more Russian than anything else, “I'll meet you at the gas station.”

Leaving you to gather the rest of the bags, he stalks towards the doors. The group of young men, led by a slightly older man with shaven head and multiple dark tattoos, headed out the door ahead of him. As you're heading that way, you're met by Gregory, who steps in front of you. 

“You might not want to go out there right now,” he says softly in Romanian. He hesitates, then rushes off into the store. A large man comes up to you, his tag declaring him to be an assistant manager, Kevin M, by name.

“I'm sorry, was that man bothering you?” He asks the question as he draws near. You open your eyes wide and look around.

“What man?” you ask, batting your eyelashes a couple of times, enjoying the irritation this brings to the large man's face. He tries to hide a scowl and mostly succeeds.

“Nevermind. Is there anything I can do for you this evening, ma’am?” His change in demeanor, from menacing to congenial, is almost frightening. You raise a eyebrow at him, thinking fast.

“Yes, as a matter of fact there is,” you reply in your best Georgia drawl. “Could you walk me out to my vehicle? There was a bunch of young men by the door earlier and they looked,” you pause for emphasis, “dangerous.”

Kevin M, assistant manager, hesitates, raising your level of suspicion even higher. You flutter your eyelashes again, several times in rapid succession, and let out a soft sigh. With a smile that was just this side of a leer, he nodded and held out his arm. “I’d be glad to make sure you make it to your car safely, ma'am.”

Taking his arm and keeping anything but a smile from your expression, you walk with him out the front doors. You are quite sure that he'd have tipped his hat and held the door for you, looking at your ass the whole time, if the doors weren't automatic and if he'd been wearing a hat. As it is, he pats your hand a couple of times as you cross the nearly empty parking lot. 

His surprised face when you stop at your Jeep Rubicon is priceless. The shock is quickly covered by another smarmy smile as he attempts to move your bags to the back seat of your vehicle. You step in front of him, blocking the back door from opening. “Thank you so much, sir, but I can take it from here.” Gone is your drawl and the sappy eyes.

He startles and shakes his head, processing your sudden change of demeanor. The sounds of a pistol firing comes as a slap to your ears, startling Kevin even more. Sure that it came from where Bucky and that gang had met up, you made a gasp to get Kevin's attention again. “Oh my, I'd better be on my way. You should go call the police, Kevin.” 

He turns and heads into the store, no longer interested in looking at your butt. You sneer at his retreating backside for a whole second before turning back to load your stuff, no more hesitation in your movements.

You make it to the gas station across the parking lot from Walmart in record time, pulling up to a pump to top off the tank so it wouldn't look suspicious waiting there. You'd just filled up a little ways ago, with Bucky asleep in the passenger seat. This thought peaked your curiosity, prompting you to open the back door and check out the gear he'd dropped back there where he'd changed into your sleep shirt. Which he was still wearing, bringing up that flash of tight abs you'd caught a glimpse of back then. A moment's pause to appreciate that memory, then back to what you were doing. 

The black lump sitting on the floor turns out to be a one-sleeved strap-on vest, similar to kevlar body armor, something you were familiar with. This piece had extra pockets and straps, appearing extremely versatile and sturdy. As you pick it up and turn it around, several small metal objects fall to the floor. Leaning over to pick one up, you brace yourself against the back of the passenger seat. The push forward cause more of the metal objects to fall down from where they'd been caught between the back and bottom of the seat. You pick one up for a closer inspection. 

Before your brain can put a name to what it has recognized, the thump of a hand on your Jeep's hood draws your attention up. Bucky has returned, looking wild eyed like he had back at the tunnel. You draw back from the seat as he comes around the door. Without a word, he climbs into his seat and does up his seat belt. 

Hurriedly you finish the fueling and clamber into your own seat. The sight of his face, split lip, bruised eye and jaw, evokes a multitude of possible reactions, all cancelled when he looks over at you and asks, “Are you alright?”

Keeping your expression neutral, something you're used to doing, you hand him the same towel you had after the tunnel. “Let me guess,” you quip as he takes it and dabs at his lip, “I should see the other guy.”

His gaze drops, a look similar to when you were trying to help him with clothes coming back to cover his face. “Guys,” he murmers. “And no, you shouldn't.”

His eyes remained averted as you start the Jeep and pull onto the frontage road. Feeling the need for something dark but energetic, you slip in your Metallica Master of Puppets cd and crank it. He jumps at the first sounds of the bass and drums, then nods and leans back in his seat, pulling his cap down over his eyes. 

Getting up to speed on the highway, you glance at him as you set the cruise control and roll the piece of metal you'd picked up between your fingers, wondering what you've gotten yourself into. The piece of metal was a crumpled bullet shell that had come off of the man sleeping in the seat next to you. The rise of trepidation in your gut is an unwanted sensation as you head to your next destination.


	4. Make an Educated Decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: [14 Tips for Winter Driving by Berne Broudy](https://www.outsideonline.com/1920576/14-tips-winter-driving)  
> Top Tips For Winter Driving  
> 1\. If the conditions are beyond your abilities, don’t take undue risk; know when to say when. Use weather apps or sites to investigate what Mother Nature has in store for you not just at your destination, but also along your route. Dial 5-1-1 for road conditions and closures. Then make an educated decision.
> 
>  
> 
> [Christiansburg, VA to Charlotte, NC to Atlanta, GA](https://www.google.com/maps/dir/Christiansburg,+VA/Charlotte,+NC/Atlanta,+GA/@35.4957247,-83.4947657,472434m/am=t/data=!3m2!1e3!4b1!4m20!4m19!1m5!1m1!1s0x884d9303308b8dc1:0x82f2a24d09c53963!2m2!1d-80.4089389!2d37.1298517!1m5!1m1!1s0x88541fc4fc381a81:0x884650e6bf43d164!2m2!1d-80.8431267!2d35.2270869!1m5!1m1!1s0x88f508c2984894e7:0xa59c4ec70587513e!2m2!1d-84.338429!2d33.8730946!3e0)

The sunrise had come and gone and was turning into a nice summer morning leading to a typical summer day, which in the South meant up to and including 100° temperatures, not to mention the humidity. You are tempted to turn on the A/C but opt to roll down your window and enjoy the morning coolness while it lasts. The air is definitely more humid now and has a hint of salt even this far inland. Coming up on Charlotte, North Carolina, you switch off your satellite radio and tune into the local stations. 

It’s a weird paranoia you picked up from your mother about being tracked when using the satellite radio or the satellite phone you carried, so you compromised by turning them on only when you couldn’t pick up anything locally. Your scanner on the regular radio picks up a local top 40 station and you listen for a moment then push the search button to see what else comes up. 

After three stations and nothing catching your attention, you go to hit the search button again and feel a sting on the back of your hand. It takes a second for you to glance from the road down to your hand as well as to register consciously that Bucky has grabbed your hand with his gloved one, quick enough and hard enough to sting. You pull it back, heart beating faster and grateful he lets it go.

“What the hell, Bucky?” you snap.

“Stop doing that,” he motions at the radio, a perturbed look on his face that you can’t quite describe from your glances at him while still watching the road. 

“What? Changing the channels? Sorry, just trying to find something to listen to.” You know you sound snarky, but this was an issue you’d never had to deal with before so you’re not sure how you should sound. 

“You passed two songs already. Why not listen to one of them?” His petulant tone would have gotten on your nerves if it wasn’t for the genuine puzzlement knitting his eyebrows together and making him squint. 

You shake your head. “I didn’t like either of those and that third station is just doing commercials at the moment, so I was just scanning for something I liked.” 

His face screws up in a perplexed frown. “Why do you have to listen to music all the time?”

You roll your eyes at the question, watching the increased traffic as you get closer to the city. “Because normally I’m not carrying a passenger. The packages I transport don’t care how many times I change the channel or cd.”

You glance over at him in time to see that pout he’d had on his face in New York. You sigh softly, send a quick prayer to your mother as your guardian angel to keep your sharp tongue in check, and send him a sideways smile.

“Not that I mind having you as a passenger, I’m just not used to it, see?”

He glanced out the window, watching the cars around yours, passing and weaving in and out of traffic on the freeway. You take this opportunity to sneak more glances, studying his profile. After several silent moments with only the radio commercials filling the air between you and him, you realize he looks rather sad and lost and is trying to keep it all in. Taking a deep breath through your nose, you let out another sigh.

“Tell you what, Bucky. I’ll find a station you like on the satellite radio and leave it there till we get to my storage unit. K?”

The look he gives you is a peculiar mix of hope and despair. “Okay,” he murmurs, “how about some jazz or some swing music?”

Your laugh of surprise startles him and he draws back into himself. You send him a smile over your shoulder and switch over to the sat radio, pushing a button on the bluetooth headset resting around your neck. “Hello baby, find jazz or swing radio station for me, please?”

Bucky glanced at you in the mirror, surprise on his face as the radio screen brought up several choices for you to pick from. Again the thought occurred to you that he looked like he’d never seen anything like voice-activated radios or satellite radio. You had grown up adapting to these advances in technology, making you wonder where he’d been that he hadn’t. 

Motioning at the radio, you say with a grin, “There ya go. Take your pick.” You aren’t surprised when he shrugs and looks out the window again.

“Whichever one you want. It’s fine, really, you don’t have to…”

You roll your eyes again, careful to be looking out at the traffic when you do so you don’t hurt his feelings again, and tap the choice for one of the golden oldies stations you figure your grandfather would have listened to. The smooth tones of an oldies song erupted from the speakers and the radio showed the group as Bing Crosby and The Andrew Sisters performing the song [‘Pistol Packin Mama’](https://playback.fm/charts/top-100-songs/video/1943/Bing-Crosby--The-Andrews-Sisters-Pistol-Packin-Mama). 

It’s several moments and a couple of songs before you are able to glance over to see how Bucky is liking the station as you have to deal with some jerk in traffic cutting in front of you, then deciding he wants to be in the far lane so he can exit right away. Other cars around you are honking their horns, but you are finding the music to be super chill, which helps you keep calmer than you usually do. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see his knee tapping in time with the current song, Benny Goodman feat. Helen Forrest, [‘Taking a Chance on Love’](https://playback.fm/charts/top-100-songs/video/1943/Benny-Goodman-Taking-A-Chance-On-Love). 

A few more songs go by with no response from him, then one comes on, Harry James Orch. feat. Helen Forrest, [‘I Had the Craziest Dream’](https://playback.fm/charts/top-100-songs/video/1943/Harry-James-I-Had-the-Craziest-Dream), sounding like something from the Lawrence Welk show that you vaguely remember your grandma always watching. You feel the Jeep rock a bit as he shifted around, then his voice comes to you sounding muffled.

“Kay, that’s good. You can change it back. Maybe that [Sanitarium](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V6Dfo4zDduI) song we were listening to earlier or something.” 

His voice is rough, filled with emotion. It touches something in you that you hadn’t felt in a long time. It had been forever and a day since you’d even thought about tearing up for any reason, but his voice caused some kind of reverberation inside you. Before you could change the station, the song changed again, this time playing Tommy Dorsey & Frank Sinatra, [‘There Are Such Things’](https://playback.fm/charts/top-100-songs/video/1943/Tommy-Dorsey--Frank-Sinatra-There-Are-Such-Things). As quick as he had caught hold of your hand earlier, his hand darts out and turns off the radio, cutting the song short. 

Silence fills the cab of the Jeep as you slow down a little, then shift lanes to the right a couple of times and exit onto the frontage road. When he remains silent, his face turned back over his shoulder, chin resting on his propped fist as he looks out the window, you keep your mouth shut for once and just drive. 

“Can I have some of that food you bought earlier?” He speaks up after a short time, his voice soft, neutral in tone, like nothing had happened. You nod, then answer in case he isn’t looking at you.

“Sure, I bought it for both of us. Eat what you want.” Even as you speak you can hear him rummaging through the bags in the back seat. Soon the Jeep is filled with the smell of mustard from the sandwich and you can hear the rustle of the chip bag as he works on opening it. 

The sound of a pop and the bag tearing is quickly followed by Bucky’s loud “Shit!” and a shower of chips as the bag disintegrates and disperses its contents all over you and him. You let loose a peal of laughter at this misfortune, then cut it off and glance over at him from the corner of your eye. His chagrined smile changes to a full chuckle and grin as he shakes his head.

“Sorry, I was just trying to get them open,” he murmurs as he tries to clean them up. 

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll stop and vacuum them up in a little bit.” Laughter laces your voice as you try not to let it out again. 

“‘Kay,” he agrees. For several minutes there is only the sound of him eating the sandwich and making yum-yum noises. You would be willing to bet that he didn’t even realize he was making them. If he didn’t look like he could punch out a diesel truck, you would have sworn he hadn’t eaten in a very long time. When he finished, he looked like he wanted more. 

“Go ahead, eat the other one,” you urged him, catching his face in your rearview mirror. He looks eager at first, then leans back.

“I don’t want to eat your food.” 

You shake your head before you can stop yourself. He is such a contradiction, first hard and dangerous, now soft and thoughtful. Besides the bafflement of his lack of knowledge, the combination has you intrigued and ready to dig in to find out more. Not that you would do that right now. This problem is something your grandma would have called ‘boiling a frog’.

“No worries, I can go a few more hours without food and not miss it a bit,” your chuckle follows the deprecating remark. You’d learned back when you were first out on your own that you had to pay attention to what and when you ate, so this was nothing new. “Reach in that other bag and hand me one of those protein bars, please.”

He reaches back and pulls out the box of protein bars, strawberry and cream, your favorite flavor. Laying the sandwich across his knees, he opens the box and pulls one out. The look you catch on his face in your mirror makes you laugh again.

“What’s wrong? You gotta unwrap it, right?”

His sardonic smile makes you chuckle. “Yes, that’s obvious. But what is it?”

“A protein bar. It has stuff like grains and fruit and soy fiber to give you enough protein and energy that you can eat it instead of a meal.” You can’t see his face as you turn at a light and head down a quiet street with businesses on the left and apartments on the right, but the tone in his voice is an interesting mix of curiosity and disgust.

“You mean like military rations? Oh no, you can have the sandwich. I’m not gonna make you eat that.” 

You come to a red light and for once you are glad to stop, as the laughter bubbling out of you is making it hard for you to concentrate on the road. His confused face doesn’t help any, bringing more laughter out of you. The light turns green and you have to focus on driving, biting your lip and shaking your head as you hold in the laughs until they subside enough for you to talk.

“No, dahling,” you slip into your best Southern drawl, “not like military rations. Much, much better. Trust me,” you toss a quick grin over your shoulder to him, “I’ve had rations. Even with the improvements they’ve made over the past 20 years, they’re still barely palatable. Least the military ones are.” You reach over and take the protein bar from his grasp, tearing it open with your teeth and one hand as you drive. Spitting the piece of wrapper that came off the main one out of your mouth, you take a bite. Sweet strawberry and cream over crunchy grains and other good stuff fills your mouth with their mouth-watering flavor. You chew on the mouthful for a few moments, then look over at Bucky.

He is chewing a mouthful of sandwich, watching you thoughtfully. Swallowing, he asks, “There's something besides military rations?”

Another chuckle escapes you. Shaking your head, you just answer, not wanting to probe too much into his past just yet. “Yes, there are. Survivalist, Doomsday preppers, ordinary people that want to have food in case of emergencies or disasters, they all have food that is packaged and preserved so they can have something like a normal meal if the world goes all to hell.”

Glancing over at him, you see a look of horror and anxiety crawl over his expressive face, followed by that same shameful frown he’d worn before. His mouth opens and closes a couple of times before he shakes his head and looks out the window again. 

You can’t watch him as you have arrived at the location you’d been heading for since leaving the freeway. As you turn off the street and head up the driveway to the locked gate in the high metal fence surrounding the [Public Storage](https://www.google.com/maps/place/4715+Park+Rd,+Charlotte,+NC+28209/@35.1715445,-80.8556248,16.67z/data=!4m5!3m4!1s0x88569e574120cc63:0xc14a6dbc98a24d05!8m2!3d35.1660478!4d-80.8499588) business where you kept some of your stuff, you hear him sigh and wrap up the sandwich he’d been eating. His arm brushed against your shoulder as he reached back and set it back in the bag he’d taken it from. It was then that you decided you would help him get to wherever he was headed and maybe even help him figure out how to get his head straight, if only he would let you.

Pulling up to the gate, you let your window down to punch in the code. He shakes himself, rocking the Jeep, and asks you, “What are we doing here?”

“This is one of my storage units. I have some gear here that I figure would be helpful in our trip. With people after you, I am not going to be sticking to the normal routes, so we might need to go off-road. This stuff will help. Especially if we have to go off-road.” The gate rolls open and you ease off the brakes, allowing the vehicle to roll through on its own power. Watching him as you let your Jeep go down the lot toward your unit, you take a breath and blurt out what you have decided, before you lose your nerve.

“Look, Bucky, or whatever your name really is, I know you’ve got some bad people after you. But I saw you also have some people who might not be so bad in that tunnel back there as well. You don’t have to tell me everything that’s going on, least not right now, but I am willing to help you get to where you are going. You just gotta promise to take care of me so I can do that.” You stop next to your unit and put your Jeep in park, avoiding eye contact. 

Silence reigned in the vehicle for long moments after you had cut off the engine. Then Bucky’s hand came into view, held out palm up. “Agreed. I keep you alive, you get me across the country. Shake on it?”

You reach over and your hand is engulfed in his. You both shake and you finally are able to look at him. His blue eyes are shining now in the afternoon sunlight and he has the happiest grin you’d seen on his face since you met him. Still, you can’t help but feel you have stepped off a cliff and now it’s only a matter of how long you have to wait before hitting the water. Being a strong swimmer, you dismiss the butterflies in your stomach as excitement and nothing to do with the touch of his hand holding yours.


	5. Take Your Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: [14 Tips for Winter Driving by Berne Broudy](https://www.outsideonline.com/1920576/14-tips-winter-driving)  
> Top Tips For Winter Driving  
> 2\. Take the time you need to get to your destination safely. Don’t speed.
> 
> [Christiansburg, VA to Charlotte, NC to Atlanta, GA](https://www.google.com/maps/dir/Christiansburg,+VA/Charlotte,+NC/Atlanta,+GA/@35.4957247,-83.4947657,472434m/am=t/data=!3m2!1e3!4b1!4m20!4m19!1m5!1m1!1s0x884d9303308b8dc1:0x82f2a24d09c53963!2m2!1d-80.4089389!2d37.1298517!1m5!1m1!1s0x88541fc4fc381a81:0x884650e6bf43d164!2m2!1d-80.8431267!2d35.2270869!1m5!1m1!1s0x88f508c2984894e7:0xa59c4ec70587513e!2m2!1d-84.338429!2d33.8730946!3e0)

Releasing his hand stirs feelings in your gut, ones that you quickly squash, not wanting to admit to having them, especially now. You unbuckle and slide out of the Jeep, going to the lock on the rolling metal door that guards your space. He gets out and comes to stand next to you, his hands akimbo. A glance at him over your shoulder makes you smile, even as you shift to block his view of the combo lock. 

“I’m not trying to peek at your lock,” he chuckles.

“Yeah, but I’m paranoid, so deal,” you shoot back at him, your own chuckle laced in as you try to not sound like you feel. Once the lock is removed, you bend and yank up the door, allowing it to scroll up on its own. Hot air escapes from the storage space you step back to view what you have stored there. 

“Okay, we need this hitch rack and the top rack for the tire,” you say, pulling on the hitch rack to slide it out of the unit. You feel him step up behind you, his body blocking the sun. The smell of him, sweaty and oddly metallic, washes over you as he places his hands next to yours and after you let go, proceeds to pull and lift the hitch rack by himself out of the shed. 

He lifts it easily and carries it to the back of the Jeep, sliding the bar into the hitch slot there. With only a slight pause to remove the cotter pin from the bar, he has it in place in less than two minutes, snapping the cotter pin over and through the slot hole and securing it in place. Tossing his hair back, he grins at you, then walks over and places his hands on his hips again. 

“Okay, ready for the top rack.”

Raising your eyebrows, you simply point to the rack, no words coming to mind. With another grin, he grabs the rack and shifts it to his shoulder, holding it in place with his gloved hand. He walked to the back of the Jeep again and proceeded to hop up onto the hitch rack, then up on the tire and from there, he swings the rack onto the hardtop of the Jeep. Leaning against the hardtop, he secures the back and middle latches, then jumps down and makes his way to the front of the vehicle. Nimbly hopping up onto the fender and then to the hood, he straddles the Jeep and secures the front latches as well. Only after he hops down and comes to stand in front of you, looking extraordinarily pleased with himself, do you have a response for him.

Clapping slowly, you shake your head. “Wow that was amazing!” 

Bucky blushes and bows, his hands set one in back, one in front like a stage magician, his goofy grin making his eyes squint. “For my next trick…” He looks at you expectantly. 

You giggle and point at the back of the Jeep. “The spare tire needs to be set up on top so the cooler can be strapped to the hitch rack.” 

With a sassy salute, Bucky strides to the back of the Jeep again, a definite bounce in his step. You expect him to ask for the wrench to loosen the lugs, only to be surprised when he doesn't. Instead he twists the lug nuts with his gloved hand, tossing the loosened ones into his other hand. Once they are all off, he pulls the loose and heaves it onto his shoulder then, standing on the hitch rack, tosses it up onto the roof. 

He jumps up onto the roof after it, kicking off the mount that the tire had been secured to only a moment ago. A little voice sounds off in your head about how effortless he did that. Of course you dismiss it. After all, you’d never be lucky enough to meet up with a real, live, in the flesh superhero. You ignore, as well, the echo bouncing around that would sound a lot like someone whispering “or supervillain”, if you listened to it. By the time you come back to your surroundings, he has jumped down from the roof of the Rubicon and is standing in front of you, grinning. 

Your breath catches for half a second as your gaze meets his, blue eyes just a shade lighter than the summer sky gleaming as his face scrunches into a giant smile. Forcing a deep breath into your lungs, you turn and pull out the extra large cooler that fit on the hitch rack, along with a couple of things stacked on top that you wanted to pack as well.

****************************************************************************  
Bucky was sure he was overdoing it in showing off while arranging the tire and the racks for you on your Jeep, but considering this was the best he had felt since, well since he could remember, he was sure he didn’t really care if he was not being as careful in his movements as he should be. You had extended your hand and your trust to him, when he was certain that no one ever would again, and that gave him hope where he had thought it was dead in his heart. He grinned at you, watching you pull out the oversized cooler, enjoying your movements and the sun in his eyes. 

Until he saw the shape of the cover for the long object resting on top of the cooler. He knew that shape, knew it like he knew his own left hand. A cold chill stabbed him through the heart and left an ache in his left arm that had nothing to do with the temperature.

“Hey, doll,” he started the sentence with that phrase before he even thought about it, the familiarity of it striking an off chord in his ears. He forced the rest of the question out before his voice closed up on him or he lost his nerve. “Why do you have a sniper rifle in your stuff?”

*****************************************************************************  
Bucky’s voice calling you doll makes your breath catch again, but even turned away from him as you were, you can hear the oddness in his words. When what he said penetrates your brain and gets sorted out from among the emotions fogging your senses, you feel a sudden chill and a whole diatribe of denial starts up as echoes of conversations from your past. 

“It’s a hunting rifle, Bucky,” you state, remaining as cool as possible with the explosions that are happening in your head right now. “My father gave it to me several years ago and taught me how to shoot it.” You can feel your gaze going hard and cold as you turn to watch for his reaction.

His lips tighten and he nods, not replying. Instead he motions at the case holding your rifle. You take it to mean he wants to look at it, which you don’t have a problem with. Just him accusing you of such a thing had set you off, but you don’t know how to tell him that. You hand him the case, trying to give him a small grin as you do. It feels like you’re trying to convince him to eat Brussel sprouts. 

With the same speed and precision that he showed taking the tire off the back of the Jeep, Bucky opens the gun case and pulls out the rifle. He works the bolt action, checks the ammo load for bullets and then dismantles the rifle faster than you had ever seen anyone do before. All the while, his face is twisted into a strange grimace, like he is holding a pure copper penny in his mouth or smelling a dead animal. When he puts the gun back together as fast as he took it apart and hands it to you, you take it awkwardly, not sure what he wants you to do. 

Giving you a frown, he reaches into the ammo pouch tucked inside the case and pulls out a bullet. He holds it out to you.

“Load it.” The harsh whisper fall flat in the storage alleyway. 

“I can’t...it’s within city limits. That’s not legal.” Your protest stutters from you as you take the bullet from his fingers. The rifle is braced across your arms, making it awkward to hold as you try to maintain your grip on the ammo. You shuffle it around until you have it under your right arm, but the bullet slips and drops to the concrete drive. 

_Ting! Tinga-ting! Ting!_ It bounces as you and Bucky stare at it. In a blur, he is on his knee, grabbing the shiny object, then up in your face, holding it inches from your eye.

“This is not a toy,” he growls. 

“Neither is this.” Your voice is soft but firm as you push slightly on the knife in your left hand against his stomach, feeling the extra sharp blade cut through your shirt that he is still wearing. His jump into your face had made you flinch, but your ingrained reactions, taught to you by your father as well, had brought out the knife before you had even consciously decided to defend yourself. Nerves jumping, you still manage to hold the knife and yourself steady, unsure of what his reaction will be. 

He steps back, glancing down as though confirming that you really did have what he thought was in your hand. It wasn’t much of a blade, but three inches of sharp steel was nothing to sneer at when pointed at such a vulnerable spot. The surprise in his eyes lasts only the briefest fraction of a second, to be replaced with a scowl that fails to hide growing respect in his gaze. 

Plucking the knife from your hand, he sets the bullet in your palm, then turns and grabs one of the crates sitting on top of the large cooler. You aren’t sure what he is up to as he goes to the Jeep and grabs one of the cans of Monster from the back seat. Taking the crate and the drink can, he stalks down the alleyway between the locked storage units, his boots making dull echoes bounce off the walls and metal doors.

Reaching the end of the row, where the cross lane leading across the back of the storage yard meets the lane you are standing on, he sets the crate down and places the can on its top. Just as quickly, he is back down to you and the Jeep. The frown on his face has you stepping back from him, causing him to pull up and pause. Again, your reflexes have responded to your early training and now the gun is pointing at him, though the end of the barrel isn’t very high.

Bucky’s face twists through several expressions, as though he is fighting with himself about what to do next, then he raises his left hand up, palm toward you. For a second, there was a flash of metal at his wrist that caught your attention, then he is speaking and pointing at the can he had set on the crate down the alleyway.

“Shoot the can, [Y/N].” 

“It’s against the law. A shot would draw out the cops and then where would we be?” You scowl at him, wondering why he doesn’t know that already. You also wonder that he didn’t flinch at the gun barrel not more than a few feet away from him. 

He cocks his head, thinking. You’re reminded of how foreign language speakers tilt their heads when translating what they want to say into English. After a long moment of silence, he steps over to the cooler and reaches into the gun case, sliding out a silencer barrel. With deft movements, he unscrews the end of the barrel and attaches the silencer. It’s heavier now, the barrel of the silencer sliding down over the last 8 inches of the gun barrel and still adding 6 inches to its length. 

You squint and turn away from facing him directly, the gun swinging with your motion. “How far is it, y’think?” Counting the doors and trying to estimate how wide each one is, you’re surprised at his quick answer.

“60 meters.” 

You glance at him sideways. How did he know that so quickly? The thought flashes through your head, followed by the replay of him grabbing the bullet from the ground and getting in your face. Another image follows, one that hasn’t been clear before now. The way his face was back in Virginia this morning, hard and focused. One short nod at him and you look back down the alleyway. The can is barely visible from here with just your naked eyesight. You check the scope on the rifle as it’s been awhile since you used it. Still secure.

“How long have you been doing this?” Bucky’s voice came softly from your right as you load the gun.

“8 or 9 years,” you reply, intent on your task. Your father always made sure you didn’t get distracted when you were shooting, a habit deeply ingrained now.

“8 or 9 years? And you’re how old? 22? 23?” Bucky shaking his head out of the corner of your eye makes you smile. 

In sequence, you raise the gun to your shoulder, turning your upper body slightly to brace it for the shot, sight down the scope and adjust for the heaviness of the silencer, bracing your left elbow against your ribs. The can glints now in the scope, clear enough to read the label. You pause and hold your breath, waiting for the moment of silence that comes at these times. Bucky’s comment digs at you though, requiring an answer.

“No, since I was 8 or 9 years old. I’m 24 now.” You smile at your own comment and the silence falls. The trigger under your finger is an extension now of your will and the can explodes. A muffled _WHAP_ and the rattle of the door at the end of the alleyway as the bullet passes through the can and into the unit are the only sounds that indicate you had fired.


	6. Don’t base your...decisions on other cars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: [14 Tips for Winter Driving by Berne Broudy](https://www.outsideonline.com/1920576/14-tips-winter-driving)
> 
> 3\. Be aware that snow and ice changes by the minute, which in turn changes available traction. At any given spot, traction also changes with each car that passes by. Don’t base your braking or turning decisions on other cars.

The heavy rifle pulls at your arms, prompting you to lower it to rest on your right hip. You turn to see how Bucky has reacted to your shot. He hasn't moved, his face blank and eyes squinting against the sunlight. Without a word, he steps up and takes the rifle, handing your folded knife back as he lifts it with ease. On his face is a strange expression, smug yet resigned, like he hadn’t wanted you to make the shot. Slipping the knife back into its hidden pocket at your waist, you shake your head, confused by the mixed signals.

You leave the disassembly and storing of the rifle back in its bag to Bucky and step into the storage unit, feeling the heat in your bones, the result of hours of southern sun beating down on the metal roof overhead, even though it is barely noon. In a matter of fifteen minutes, you have the rest of the supplies you’d decided on out on the pavement next to the Jeep, ready to stash it and get going. Bucky comes over to stand next to you, the questions on his face as clear as if he’d spoken. Ignoring him for now, you pack and place your equipment efficiently, years of practice showing in your precise movements. 

The cooler is the last thing to be packed. Unlocking the clasp that secures the lid, you flip it open to reveal three sections, each holding something different. Hand on your hip, you contemplate the current content, trying to predict what you might need more or less of in the coming days. Rations, actual military style, fill the smaller middle section, while the two on the outside contain cooking gear and a small bundle of items for starting a fire just about anywhere. Satisfied, you lock the lid back, grab the tent and sleeping bags that you’d brought out of the storage unit, and walk to the side of the Jeep. 

“Do you want this on the roof or the hitch?” Bucky’s tone is cool, neutral in the face of you not speaking to him since the shot. 

“The hitch rack, please.” You toss the gear in the back seat and turn in time to see him heft the heavy cooler onto the shelf of the hitch rack without even making a grunt to show any effort. On the one hand, you are impressed, as it would have taken you several minutes of swearing and sweating to get it up there. On the other hand, that kind of strength wasn’t something you saw every day. The niggling little voice that is asking what you’ve gotten yourself into is quickly squashed as you secure the cooler and check the spare on the roof. 

With everything strapped down and tucked away, you go to close the unit door, only to have Bucky there next to you, reaching up to do the same thing. For just a moment, your bodies are lined up together, against each other, hands up, ribs touching, hips pressed side to side. Heat of another kind sears you along your side, stirring something hidden inside. Stepping back, a gasp of indrawn breath in response escaping from your mouth, you watch him move gracefully, closing the door and latching it before you can gather your wits enough to pick up the lock from the ground. He takes it from your hands as you try to formulate words and locks the door. 

Squinting against the brightness of the sun high overhead now, he tilts his head to one side.

“Can we stop and get something to eat before hitting the road? I’m kinda hungry again.” 

*************************************************

[The Flying Biscuit Cafe](https://tinyurl.com/y8kpu2p9) is [just down the street](https://tinyurl.com/yc6gk2al) from the Public Storage unit, a pretentious southern food restaurant trying very hard not to look like a chain restaurant in a strip mall. It wanted to be the Mom and Pop place everyone went to on a Sunday after church, and probably was, though you’ve never been here on a Sunday to judge how successful it was at it. You’d been here a few times before, though, and found the atmosphere and food good enough to come back. Now it seems like the perfect spot to take Bucky, not too crowded yet anonymous, and he can eat until he’s satisfied. 

Pulling into the parking lot at the end of several cars, you notice his nervousness. You look him over and nod your head. He needs to clean up and change shirts. Remembering how shy he was in Walmart when you tried to help him pick out clothes, you know what you’ll have to do here. Without a word, you reach back into the bags of stuff in the back seat and find one of the new Henley-style shirts he’d picked out, along with a pack of baby wipes and his deodorant. 

You hand them to him, smiling to put him at ease. 

“Here, change your shirt and clean your face. Oh,” you reach down between the seats and grab your hairbrush, handing him that as well, “use this on your hair. Don’t worry,” this in response to the scrunchy thing his eyebrows are doing, “I’ll stand outside and promise,” you cross your heart with your finger, “no peeking.”

The smile is welcome, the blush is unexpected. He takes the things and waits for you to get out. You do, sliding out of the Jeep and shutting the door behind you to lean against it as you wait. The storefronts to the right of the Flying Biscuit showed signs of life, people entering and leaving regularly. One was a bakery, the other seems like some kind of retail store. To the left, the building was empty, its windows boarded over to keep them intact. No one paid it any attention that you could tell. You pull out your phone, wanting to find the place on Google Maps to see if it’s being used as a warehouse, but before you can search, you hear the other door open and close, then Bucky is walking around the front end of the Jeep. 

The Henley shirt was not the blue one you had handed him, but you have to admit the red looks better on him. He’d washed his face and the marks from early this morning didn’t seem so bad now. The scruffy growth went with his overall look, especially since he’d used one of your hair ties to pull back his long hair. This brought your attention to his eyes.

You’d noticed them before, circles of summer blue that were warm when he smiled, yet could go ice cold without a moment’s notice. Now they were like reflecting pools filled with a hesitant hopefulness as he waits for your response. His hands on his hips draw your gaze down and you realize he even managed to change his pants. Forcing your tongue out to moisten lips that all of a sudden seem stiff and dry, you manage to say something.

“Well, at least the pants fit, right?” Inwardly you groan at the lameness of the comment. Not that you had a lot of practice giving out compliments. It did the trick though, bringing out that smile of his that again, has you taking a deep breath and swallowing against a lump in your throat. Your reaction only gets worse each time it catches you full on.

“Yeah, they’re good,” he chuckles awkwardly, then rolls his lower lip in to chew on it. 

Your stomach lurches and rolls, causing flutters to explode up into your chest. It takes a moment for you to get yourself loose from these unexpected reactions. With a couple of shakes of your head, you manage to clear the sudden heat and fog that has encompassed your mind. Turning to face the restaurant, you start walking, giving the keyfob a quick push out of habit. The sound of the horn startles you and you look over your shoulder. There just behind you is Bucky, looking as confused as you feel. You jerk your gaze forward again, focusing on food and telling yourself to straighten up and behave.

[Neil Diamond’s Cracklin’ Rosie](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MGemtjVtfZM) is playing soft and low on the in-store music system when you walk through the door. Bucky holds the door for you, surprising you enough to give you pause before you walk through the door. His smile when you thank him makes your chest tighten. The hostess has to ask you twice about your seating preference before you understand her and ask for a booth in the back. 

You get a table with four chairs crowded around it, but it was in the back at least. The main area for seating was up front, including the tables out on the sidewalk to entice the outdoor crowd into stopping for a bite. Most of those tables had been occupied or you might have asked for one out there. This one was tucked along the narrow walkway leading to the restrooms, allowing you to watch anyone approaching your table. 

It almost didn’t work though. Bucky pulls out the chair facing the end of the hall and seems surprised when you walk past. You smirk and pull out the chair opposite that one, dropping casually into the seat and setting your keys on the table next to you. He looks baffled at first, then shakes his head like he is waking up and sits in the chair he had pulled out. Smiling at him to let him know you aren’t holding his misplaced chivalry against him, you grab the menus from the sidebar and hand him one. 

Dropping the breakfast menu in the middle of the table, you open the regular one, looking for the lunch specials. He picks up the one you had laid down and opens it. You peek over the top of yours in time to catch his eyes widening as he glances over the choices. That is the main thing you love about these types of places. Their menus are always so large you never have to worry about not finding something you like. 

“What can I order?” 

Bucky’s question comes softly over the top of his menu, his face gone soft with craving. The sound of grumbling from his belly turns his cheeks pink under the stubble. You refrain from laughing out loud, though your lips curve into an smug smile. 

“Anything and everything you want. I figure this is going to be our main meal today, so eat up.”

The look he gives you reminds you of how it feels to be in a candy store or ice cream shop and given permission to go all out. The server comes over, introduces herself and asks for your drink order. You give it to her, then nudge Bucky’s knee with yours under the table. 

Giving a chuckle at Bucky’s suddenly shy glance over the menu at you, you speak up. “I think we’re ready to place our food order as well, ma’am. I’ll go first,” you volunteer, getting the feeling that he is hesitant, but not sure why.

After you finish, he starts with his choices. It takes a full 3 minutes for him to tell her everything he wants and for her to write it all down. Her eyes kept getting larger and larger until you were sure her eyeballs would pop out of her skull and roll across the table. You are having a hard time containing your mirth, especially when Bucky nudges your knee with his and gives you a look that you’re sure is meant to quell you, but only serves to make you even more giggly.

She leaves to turn your order in and a silence falls over the table. Overhead, the song changes to [Johnny Cash’s Man In Black](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t51MHUENlAQ) and you catch yourself watching Bucky listen to the song. It’s as though he’d never heard Johnny Cash before, something you had thought to be impossible in this era. When the song finishes, the server has brought out your drinks and a plate of biscuits, jam and gravy for the both of you to start on. You take a biscuit, holding it in your hands as he makes short work of topping his with two packets of jam and a knife-full of butter. As he takes a bite, you find the question you want to ask.

“Where are you from? I know it’s probably none of my business and feel free to say so, but I gotta ask.” 

He chews the biscuit, slow and methodical, his eyes on the plate. A shadow comes over him, more one of an emotional nature and you regret asking him, regret prying into his private life. The biscuit is gone before he answers, an attempt at casualness evident in the tone of his voice.

“I’m from Brooklyn, like I said. It’s just...it’s been a long time since I’ve been home.” The pain in his gaze as he looks up at you, waiting for your judgement, your answer, is a knife in your chest. Drawing in a quick, deep breath, you are interrupted by the arrival of your server and another, both bearing loaded trays filled with the food you and he had ordered. 

False smiles and empty murmurs of thanks are given as they transfer the plates to the table. Bucky gives both of the girls his friendly grin, even joking around about needing them to help him out to the car after he finishes. You’ve got your best neutral happy face on, the one you perfected over years of faking that your life wasn’t the disaster it is in reality. 

The pain that showed in his eyes, though it was just a brief glimpse, is something you recognize, something you can identify with. The details didn’t matter now. You know why you want to help him. The concept of kindred spirits was something you’d learned at your grandmother’s knee when you were just a child, but it resonated deeply as a truth that you could hope to one day have. Especially as you don’t even have a place to call your own except your Jeep, let alone anyone special. 

“More coffee?”

Your introspective train of thought is knocked from its track by the server standing at your table, steaming pot of coffee in hand. Your cup is still full and steaming, but it seems Bucky has finished his first and she was ready and waiting to give him a refill. You feel a sneer coming on as he still has a full glass of milk, orange juice, and ice water in the middle of the table. Your plate of food is barely touched, though, and he has two empty plates at the edge and is working on a third. His nod and smile as he chews his current mouthful of food is enough to make the server giggle and blush. You hope she doesn’t splash the coffee while she’s flirting. 

“Turn it up!” The shout comes from the front of the restaurant, near one of the flatscreen TVs hanging in the corner to distract the customers while they eat. The sight of someone climbing up on a bench and manually adjusting the volume draws the server’s attention, making her almost overfill Bucky’s cup. He catches her hand as you stand and lean forward, wondering what has everyone’s attention. 

The Triskelion building in Washington D.C., former headquarters of SHIELD and recently destroyed during a fight between the Avengers and HYDRA, is on the screen, still in ruins, the rubble guarded by military guards with tanks and helicopters. The reporter is announcing more scandal associated with the dump of information that had flooded the internet with both SHIELD/Avengers files and HYDRA files, all the personnel info and secrets gathered by both sides over the past several decades. 

Black Widow, an operative of SHIELD’s, now known as one of the Avengers, had opened the floodgates on the database kept in the underground vaults of the Triskelion, and released with the revelation of how much HYDRA had infiltrated SHIELD. No one trusted anyone any longer, though the government was making a good show of cleaning up the mess. The reporter was commenting on the arrest of Senator Stern as a HYDRA agent, the same guy that had mocked Tony Stark just a few years ago for the fiasco at the World Expo with the Iron Man exhibit. 

Bucky had turned around, draping his arm over the back of the chair, once the coffee was not a threat, but after the announcement of the Senator’s arrest, he turned back and began eating again. You continue to stand and watch, leaning forward with your fist resting on the table for support. You’d heard that Captain America had been hospitalized after the collapse of the buildings and the last of the Helicarriers had been taken down. Yet you are certain you had just seen him last night in the Lincoln Tunnel while helping your rider escape whoever had been after him. At the moment, you’d lay odds against it being HYDRA.

With the announcement of the Senatorial investigation getting underway to look into the allegations being made against Captain America, the lunch crowd in the restaurant becomes even more agitated than they had been, some of them spouting the nonsense they’d been fed by the HYDRA agents concerning his loyalty. These were mostly shouted down or hushed by the others who either didn’t believe that the Captain could be a bad guy or the few who wanted to wait and see how things played out. 

The way that Bucky studiously ignored the conversation and was currently working his way through his fourth plate made you think he knew way more than he was letting on. You check the pathways out of the restaurant, your nerves ready to fray at the slightest provocation. The route to the kitchen and past the restrooms out the back both appear clear and you’re considering which one would be best when your attention is caught again by what is showing on the TV. 

A red banner has appeared along the bottom of the screen, announcing a special alert and the talking head behind the desk is reading a paper he has just been handed. He looks shaken, watching someone off-screen until he receives a signal of some kind and nods, then looks back into the camera. 

“This just in. There’s been a development in the terrorist attack on the SHIELD headquarters from earlier this week. It has been determined from footage recovered by the military as they comb through the massive amount of rubble and destruction, that there was a second person involved in wrecking the three Helicarriers, alongside the rogue, Captain America.”

The scraping sound of a fork being slid across the surface of the stoneware plate would normally have been enough to draw your attention, as much as you hated that sound. But right now, you’re fixated on the screen across the room. A picture has filled the right-hand side of the screen, with the talking head still yammering on about the person being wanted for questioning but also warning everyone not to approach him, due to the many reports that this person of interest is even more dangerous than anyone they have in custody. 

Onscreen, holding your attention as though your eyeballs have frozen in your sockets, is a blurry picture of a man with a shiny metal arm, long brown hair, black marks around his eyes as though he’d been sniping in the sun recently, and wearing an armored vest identical to the one sitting in the back seat of your Jeep. The news reporter is reading from the sheet of information and is calling him the Winter Soldier.


	7. Driving off the edge of your hood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: [14 Tips for Winter Driving by Berne Broudy](https://www.outsideonline.com/1920576/14-tips-winter-driving)  
> 4\. Look as far down the road as you can. Always know where you want to go. “You need to be able to see a situation so that you can respond,” Spitzner says. “If you’re driving off the edge of your hood, things aren’t going to go well. By the time you respond, what you were responding to is history.”

[Flying Biscuit Cafe, Charlotte, NC to Super 8 Motel, Decatur area, Atlanta, GA](https://www.google.com/maps/dir/Flying+Biscuit+Cafe,+Park+Road,+Charlotte,+NC/''/@34.3797083,-83.6928173,8z/data=!3m1!4b1!4m13!4m12!1m5!1m1!1s0x88569e535db22901:0x2239cad71f293bda!2m2!1d-80.8480238!2d35.1742486!1m5!1m1!1s0x88f507144393319b:0xfd2e35a55a9a68ed!2m2!1d-84.2942826!2d33.7805521)

The realization of who you have sitting across the table from you at a second-rate restaurant in a second-rate city in what you consider to be one of the most unstable states in the whole country takes you a few minutes to process. You use that time to your advantage, gathering your scattered wits about you as you sit back down at the table. 

The two of you return to eating without anything being said, though the first thing you notice is the mangled state of his fork. The tines are curled back like they’d been twisted with pliers. One of the plates in front of Bucky has deep grooves across its middle and you recall the screeching sound you’d heard during the new announcement. 

You recall the part of the news where you’d heard the screech of the metal tines against the stoneware, the part where the announcer had made the derogatory comment about Captain America going rogue. Not sure what about that statement had caused the reaction, you work up your confidence until you can raise your head to look at your client. You wanted, needed him to be okay now, or getting out of this place was going to be very difficult. 

Bucky’s face might as well have been carved from stone. He was shoveling food into his mouth like an engineer feeding coal into a steam engine, not stopping to taste anything, just fueling the fire. His eyes are cold now, chips of ice instead of summer sky. When he doesn’t return your look, you reach out and touch his gloved hand. The glove that covers the metal you now know to make up the whole of his left arm and hand. Which explains the hardness you’d felt when grabbing that arm. Or laying over it, the small voice in the back of your head murmurs, bringing up the memory of that kiss you’d laid on him back when he’d first climbed into your Jeep. 

He stops eating for a moment, glances up at you, and starts again, like a man starving. Again you are struck by the pain in his gaze. You don’t know his story, except for whispers of rumors you’d heard from your father, your mother, their acquaintances and friends. Most people hadn’t believed him to be more than that. A rumor used by HYDRA and their bully boys to frighten and coerce their way wherever they wanted to go. 

The need to find out the truth blossoms in your gut. You’d made him a promise to get him to his destination, but knowing more would be the difference between getting him there alive and getting the both of you killed, or captured. Teachings on how to assess a situation, plan for contingencies, gather knowledge and use it to your advantage, these had been your school lessons. You knew history as it pertained to strategies and navigation routes, math for calculating trajectories and windspeeds, reading people and situations. Now you needed this knowledge, you are certain of it, in order to survive.

Casually, you pull out the phone you have tucked in the back pocket of your denim capris. It’s not the one you had laid on the table earlier, but you are certain Bucky won’t realize it. You open your Snapchat and flick the orientation of the picture so it captures him as he shovels a huge forkful of eggs and ham into his mouth. Quickly you type out a message and send it to the one person you trust, then close the app and bring up your bank app, typing in your passcode to access the account. 

Just as you did so, the phone gets snatched from your hand by Bucky. He turns it around and looks at it, nods his head at what he sees and hands it back. You take it back, clucking your tongue at him.

“Rude! I was just checking my balance to make sure I have enough to cover your feast,” you pull a face at him, acting playful to cover your jangling nerves. 

He gives you a small smile and nods his head again, still chewing his food. The look in his eyes is more suspicious, almost knowing and you roll your eyes at him, pretending to be offended, wanting him to dismiss what he might be suspecting of you. How he could know you’d taken a picture of him, you weren’t sure, just that you’re positive he does. 

The server comes by, asking about refills and to-go boxes and Bucky turns his charm on, getting her to laugh at his jokes and agreeing to box up his food to take on the road. Once she leaves, Bucky, still smiling, glances over at you as you retrieve your keys from your small purse.

“Leave cash for the bill on the table and go to the back like you’re gonna use the restroom. Head out the back door and I’ll meet you around there with the Jeep.” His words are casually spoken, so much so that you almost don’t catch him holding out his hand for the keys. When it registers what he has told you to do, you lift your chin and smile back at him, though it doesn’t get past your lips.

“You head out the back. Go through the kitchen. I’m not…” The speed of him taking the keys from your hand, as well as standing and moving to your side, surprises you. You’d known he was fast but this was ridiculous. He leans in close to you, resting his right arm across your shoulders, his real hand holding you in a casual hug, like you’re a couple or something.

“Look, doll, I’m not gonna leave you.” His voice is low and smooth in your ear, his breath stirring your hair just a little. “That would cause too many problems, mostly cuz I know you’d go straight off and tell someone what you think you know.” You give him a defiant look as he steps back and holds out his hand to you. It’s not the gloved one so you take it and he pulls you to your feet. Easily. Grinning at him like he’s flirting with you, you reach into your wallet and pull out a ten, dropping it on the table. 

“I haven’t got enough cash to cover the whole bill, Doll.” You give him a smirk, emphasizing the nickname. “How about I go pay for the bill so no one gets in trouble and we walk out like we’re just a couple of tourists.” Before he can answer, you pick up the ticket and brush by him, ignoring the heat from his body that ripples down your left side as he remains where he stands, his gloved hand sliding up your left arm and then letting you go. 

Your smile is glued into place, an old and handy habit, as you make your way up to the counter and present the paper to the cashier. Easing into your smiling happy-go-lucky personality, you laugh and joke with the woman there about how much your companion can put away. Bullshitting like this is something you’ve developed during your many years on the road, though sometimes you wonder if it’s survival instinct or fear that makes you camouflage your true self from others. 

During your performance, Bucky comes up behind you and lays his hand on the small of your back, a movement that implies to any observer that you and he are together as more than just friends. It’s oddly reassuring, knowing he is there and that he’s playing along with the charade of you and he as just another tourist couple stopping for a bite while traveling. You sign the slip for the payment with the name that is on the card you’d given the woman, not that it was your real name, but it was the one you’d set up the card under. 

The thought that he might just be making sure you don’t say anything that would give him away doesn’t occur to you until after that. Turning to him, you hold out the keys, hoping your smile stays in place as you forcefully think about not stiffening up on him. From the speakers, [Carrie Underwood's "Before He Cheats"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WaSy8yy-mr8) started playing, giving you the boost you need to play your part.

“Be a dear and pull the car up, hun. I’ve got to visit the little girl’s room.” You grin at his look of confusion, hoping you were keeping him off-guard enough to surprise him. He’s quick enough to roll with the change of plans, though, and takes the keys. To your surprise, he winks and blows you a kiss before heading out the door. 

The woman behind the counter, and her co-worker coming around the end of the counter to help another guest, and the female guest waiting to be helped, all giggle and squeal and make gurgling, cooing noises at you that you suppose are meant to encourage you, congratulate you, on your choice of a mate. Blushing, you mumble something that might have been a thank you, and rush back to the restrooms.

As you reach the doors leading to the men’s room, the phone in your pocket buzzes, vibrating against your hip. You look around, verifying the whereabouts of those people close to you. When you are certain they aren’t actively watching you, you slip out the door leading to the back of the building, instead of the women’s room. The door is unlocked and shows the sign for an alarm, but you had also noticed the loose wire at the top of the alarm bar. It would have been shocking if the alarm had actually sounded, but it didn’t. 

Behind the building, you find the covered porch of a hidden bar, its door barred on the outside, as is the one window you can see. No neon sign points the way, only a small, dark wooden square nailed to the side of the building next to the door indicates the name of the place and it’s farther than you can see without squinting. A man ducks into the doorway, slipping through the door before it opens completely, then pulling it shut behind him. This explains why the door you’d come out of wasn’t alarmed.

You pull out the phone and check the message. It’s from the person you’d sent the snapshot to and it’s full of excited punctuation and emojis. There isn’t time enough to decipher it before the Jeep appears from behind the building to the left of the tiny bar and the restaurant. Bucky’s face from behind the wheel is not nearly as friendly as it was in the restaurant. Not that you are wanting him to be friendly, you tell yourself, jogging over to hop into the opened passenger side door. You barely have time to close it as he is gunning the engine and turning a tight circle to head out of the parking lot. 

“Hey, don’t get crazy! The last thing we need is to get some cop’s attention right now!” Your words come out harsh and scolding as he slips into traffic while you are still buckling your seatbelt. 

“Just give me directions until we get down the road and then you can drive again,” comes his reply, sharp and quiet, his profile hard like it had been back in the tunnel. 

You nod once, “Fine, but don’t speed and don’t act crazy. That draws their attention faster than anything else.” Looking around the traffic lanes, you don’t see any cops right this minute, but that didn’t mean anything. You knew from experience they were always lurking, often just around the bend or coming onto or off of the freeway at the most inopportune times. 

“Fine,” he mutters in return. Both of you are silent for almost a minute before he swallows and tilts his head to look at you from the corner of his eye. “What’s the speed limit?”

You feel your eyebrows raise at the question. “Fuuuuuuuuck,” you mutter under your breath, leaning back against the seat to wipe your face with your right hand. Habit has you checking the side mirror, watching for any suspicious behavior from the cars on the road around you. After you bite the inside of your cheek for a few seconds to keep from lashing out and saying something that might trigger him, you look over at him again.

“It’s usually between 30 and 45 miles an hour on these side roads. The freeway is 65 through the city and 75 once we get outside the limits.” The calmness of your voice amazes you.

Bucky nods in acknowledgement and continues driving while your nerves get more and more jangled by the second. It might not have been so bad if you didn’t have such an active imagination and hadn’t just seen pictures of the destruction that had taken place at SHIELD Headquarters. 

That voice from inside your brain, the one that comes at you from the back of your mind, whispers a reminder about the bullets in the folds of your seat and on the floor of your Jeep that came from the vest he’d been wearing until after the Lincoln Tunnel and the shot you’d heard in the parking lot of Walmart back in Virginia.

A black SUV sporting lights and the subtle markings of one of those covert police cars that like to sneak around in traffic passes by two lanes over just as the Jeep enters the highway from the frontage road and it’s more than you can handle. 

“Pullover,” you demand, your tone short and sharp. When he gives you a side glare in response, you hold up your phone and start dialing a number. The muscle in his jaw twitches but he pulls off to the shoulder of the road and turns off the car. Reaching over, you push the button for the hazard lights and undo your seatbelt. Before you can open your door, Bucky has his seatbelt off and is out of the Jeep, walking up the road instead of coming around to the passenger side. 

Scowling, you shift over to the driver’s seat and watch him walking away. Part of you wants to go after him, to finish the job and save your reputation. The part that fights against that idea is the same part that has helped you survive this long on the road by yourself. This is the part that is defiantly screaming good riddance to the danger that helping that man represents. Some secret part of you aches, though you aren’t sure why that would be. 

A voice interrupts your inner war. “Hello? [Y/N], are you okay?”

It takes a good two or three seconds for you to realize you’d touched the button to complete the call that you had threatened Bucky with and now that person is on the line, trying to get your attention. Looking at the phone to confirm this, you see his name there - [Anderson](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Agents_of_S.H.I.E.L.D._characters#Anderson), T. You lift the phone up to your ear and glance out the front window to check on Bucky, only to catch the red and blue flashing lights in your rearview mirror as a nosy cop pulls up behind you. Your decision practically makes itself at that point.

“Hey, Travis, I didn’t actually mean to call you but…”

His voice cuts through yours, worry evident in his tone. “Are you alright? Did you get away from that maniac? Did he take you hostage or was that a pic from across the room?” The questions blast out rapid-fire but you ignore them, mostly.

“He’s not in the Jeep right now. I’ll fill you in later but right now, I’ve got a damn cop walking up on me so we’re gonna play ‘How was Mom’s surgery?’, k?”


	8. Shudder forward and find traction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: [14 Tips for Winter Driving by Berne Broudy](https://www.outsideonline.com/1920576/14-tips-winter-driving)  
> 5\. Know how to use your anti-lock brakes (ABS), which prevent you from effectively turning your tires into skis and skidding them along the nearest highway. A rolling tire has more grip than sliding tire. ABS prevents a slam on the brakes from locking up the wheels into a skid. The system forces the wheels to shudder forward and find traction.
> 
> Maps: [Flying Biscuit Cafe, Charlotte, NC to Super 8 Motel, Decatur area, Atlanta, GA](https://tinyurl.com/y7l8nc4c)

You don’t wait for Travis to reply as the cop is almost to your window now. Looking up and out the front, you have a moment’s panic as your voice catches when you realize Bucky is now nowhere in sight, but you manage to push through and speak the first line to the man on the phone. “So how did Mom’s surgery go? Was she in there long?”

The officer taps on your driver side window as you speak and you make a show of turning and acting surprised to see him standing there. Rolling down your window, you speak into the phone again. “Hang on, Trav, there’s an officer here.” You pause as he asks his question about where you are again, this time in his role as your brother. “Yeah, I pulled over to the side of the road, so he’s just checking on me, I’m sure.”

You flash a great big smile up at the officer as you say this, gratified when you are met with a smile in return. Laying the phone on your shoulder, you set your elbow out the window and shade your eyes as you keep your smile in place. “It’s okay, sir. I just pulled over to answer my brother’s call. Our mom just got out of surgery…” You leave the end of the sentence hanging, inviting the cop to comment.

The cop removes his sunglasses and smiles back, brown eyes scoping out the inside of your Jeep. Fortunately, the backseat, where Bucky’s stuff is, has a pile of bags and luggage to hide anything obvious. He nods and meets your gaze again. “Yes, ma’am. Just be careful, okay? We got a report about a dangerous criminal on the loose out from DC. Never know where he might have run to.” 

You give him the appropriate face of surprise and nod. “Of course, officer. I never pick up hitchhikers or even talk to strangers. I’m on my way to Columbus to see my Momma,” your voice has taken on the same southern drawl as the cop’s, except lighter, and you motion with your phone to draw his attention to it again, “but I’ll be extra careful when I stop for fuel.”

“You taking 77 to Wytheville?” Like any good southern boy, the cop is caught by the potential discussion of what the best route to take would be. You join in, relieved that he has dismissed you as a potential threat and categorized you as a damsel in distress.

“I was kinda planning on heading over to Knoxville, then up to Louisville, and then over to Cincinnati…” you let your voice fade a bit and he cuts in, which you let him do.

“Nah, just head north on 77 up to Wytheville, then you can stay on 77 all the way up through Charleston until you hit 76. After that, it’s just a short piece to the west and there’s Columbus. Save you several hours.” He grins at you, happy to be of service, especially as you are grinning back like he’s saved you from real danger.

“If you think that’s better, officer,” you make a show of leaning forward to read his name tag, which you already know says ‘Officer Stabler’, “Stabler, then I’ll be more than happy to take your advice. I just worry when I get off the main highways.” You bite your lower lip in a show of hesitation.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head over it, ma’am. Here,” he reaches in a breast pocket and pulls out his card, “here’s my card. You get into any trouble, call me.” With that and one last smile from you, he salutes you and replaces his sunglasses. Turning sharply around, he marches back to his vehicle and climbs inside, then waves as he speeds past your Jeep, off to finish his patrol feeling like a hero, you’re sure.

After the cop is out of sight, you let your breath out in a huge sigh and pick up your phone from your shoulder. “Oh thank all that’s holy. He’s gone.” Your murmur into the phone is answered by Travis restating his concern.

“Who’s gone? The Winter Soldier? Did he just let you go?” His voice rises on the end of each question. 

“No, he was...” your explanation is interrupted as your rider reappears, rising up to open the passenger door and slide into the seat there like nothing had happened. Bucky scowls as you stare at him, your mouth agape. You lick your lips, afraid to even admit how much relief and other, uncomfortably happy, emotions burst inside you at the sight of him. 

“He’s back in the car, so we’re gonna go now?” You are asking your question of Bucky, even as you are pulling the phone from your ear and grabbing your seatbelt. 

Bucky nods and does up his seatbelt. You end the call on Travis shouting at you to not hang up and start the engine. Putting the Jeep in gear, you cut off your hazards and signal, then slip into traffic, your heart pounding and your head a jumble of questions and emotions.

******************************************  
Bucky’s POV

Bucky was glad you had waited for him, there on the busy highway. It would have made it so much harder to get to his destination without you to drive. The short distance he’d gone in your Jeep, even with you feeding him information, had been the most terrifying experience he could recall. Of course he’d done more horrific things, but not when he’d been himself. The soldier had no fear about jumping from heights or flying off in helicopters, let alone hoping into a strange vehicle at a moment’s notice.

That part was past him now, at least that’s what he kept telling himself. No more being a passenger in his own body. Still, it was a long distance from here to there and now that you had discovered who he was, it was sure to change how you treated him. He was certain of this. No one willing stayed near a monster. He was certain you only stayed because he hadn’t paid you yet.

His stomach growled, reminding him of all the food he’d left behind in his hurry to get out of that place. The thought made him sad. He caught you watching him from the corner of your eyes as you drove. It amazed him that you could do so much while driving, and made him nervous. The radio changing was the hardest to get used to. But then, back when he first started driving, there hadn’t been so many different choices of music. Even now, you had turned on the big radio that sat above the installed one, the one you called ‘Baby’ and could find the different stations that played specific types of music and was searching yet again for something else to listen to. The station you chose was one that played the lighter stuff. He’d been hoping for the heavy, darker stuff you’d played after the parking lot early this morning. 

Bucky waited until you settled into a lane on the main highway heading east before he started to ask questions. 

“Why did you pack all that gear from your storage unit?”

You look surprised for a few moments, almost like you hadn’t expected him to say something so mundane. Smiling with half your mouth, you tilt your head to view him from the side of your eye while keeping a lookout on the road ahead. “Well, when people are after you, it’s best to go where they don’t expect you to be. That way, you don’t get caught.”

Nodding in acceptance of that answer, he waits while you pass another big truck, trying not to flinch as you zoom past it. When you start talking again, he leans back and keeps his eyes on you, watching the way you casually drive, like you’d been doing it forever.

“The main highways are fine for the initial start of a journey, but once they get your scent, your way of doing things, they can plan where you’ll be and that’s when you change your directions and start using the back roads. Besides, with the tent and the air mattresses, we won’t have to worry about sleeping in the car.” You aren’t looking at him when you explain yourself more so you miss the wry smile he gives you. 

Letting out a chuckle, Bucky is quick to reply to that. “I’ve slept in worse places.” He shakes his head, refusing to think about those things right now, missing the empathetic look you shoot him. 

The highway spreads out and signs point the way to Atlanta, as well as to Knoxville and other destinations. Bucky watches as you tap the radio search bar and it pulls up another station. The music doesn’t sound much different, but you seem to like the song better. Suddenly you start singing along to the song, never missing a word of the lyrics, your voice carrying the tune without a problem. 

“I hear Jerusalem bells are ringing  
Roman Cavalry choirs are singing  
Be my mirror, my sword and shield  
My missionaries in a foreign field  
For some reason I can't explain  
Once you go there was never, never a honest word  
And that was when I ruled the world” [[Coldplay - Viva La Vida](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dvgZkm1xWPE)]

He watches you sing, belting out the words like you aren’t even thinking about what happened back at the restaurant. The words to the song stick in his head, something he remembers now. Everything stays. He remembers everything, which is why his handlers always wiped his memories, his mind, after missions. 

It was also why they hadn’t ever let him stay out for long once they were done with him. His body repaired itself, restoring every damaged nerve and cell back to the state of perfection he’d managed to achieve with the bastardized versions of the serum they’d pumped into him. Several times, in fact, each time hoping that the new version would make him equal to an ideal they had held him up to. 

He hadn’t known, hadn’t remembered, what that ideal was, not until a few days ago. Captain America, on the bridge of that helicarrier, wounded but still going, still looking at him, eyes burning with a knowledge that had been buried deep inside himself. That was the ideal. He knew that now, knew the man behind the shield, had always known him. 

Bucky wonders if Steve breaking his arm had saved him, had broken him free of the mind-wiped amnesiatic fugue he’d been in. Injuries that intense had brought him out of the fugue before. Once the healing started, that’s when the past would come flooding back. Now, with his arm nearly healed, he remembers seeing Steve on the bridge, back before Pierce had come and talked to him and they’d wiped him again. 

This time was different though. This time, there was no going back. The helicarriers had crashed, dumping them into the river. More healing, more memories. He was almost afraid to sleep tonight, though he knew it was likely that his body would shutdown to heal whether he wanted it or not. He hoped you were able to handle his nightmares.

Looking over at you again, he gives you a smile as you glance at him, then your attention goes back to the road, allowing him to study you more. You’d said that you weren’t used to having a passenger while you traveled. By the way you handled yourself, you were used to getting into scrapes and jams. And used to getting out of them, judging by the way you had handled the people you interacted with. 

Then there was the rifle. You insisted on denying your training, but it was obvious to him that someone, your father from what you’d said, had worked with you on getting that perfect shot. He’d only seen a few others, highly trained killers, hold to that stillness you had before pulling a trigger. 

Opening his mouth to ask you, part of him decides that might not be the best way to approach the subject, especially as touchy as you’d been about the rifle back at the storage unit. That was why he hadn’t asked more questions about the other supplies you’d packed. The very fact you had stuff like that packed and ready to go gave him the idea that you probably had several of these stashes around the territory you covered regularly.

He thinks back to just before he’d met you, wanting to remember how he’d managed to set the whole thing up. The soldier didn’t like to reveal memories of his actions, but Bucky is certain he had a hand in this. Who else would have the know-how to find a job and a driver to get away afterwards without sending out more signals that would get him caught. 

You reach out to change the station yet again and startle Bucky as he is deep in thought over his recent activities. He jumps and almost swings at your hand, then catches himself and gives you a chagrined smile. The smile you give him in return makes him feel a little better, but he tucks his hands under his arms as a sign that he won't do it again. 

It takes a few minutes before you choose a station. You listen for a moment, then nod and go back to watching the traffic. He listens to the end of one song, then another starts up. [99 Luftballons](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=La4Dcd1aUcE) comes on, the lyrics in German, which surprises him. He stares, mouth agape as the words pour out. 

“Hast du etwas Zeit für mich  
Dann singe ich ein Lied für dich  
Von 99 Luftballons  
Auf ihrem Weg zum Horizont  
Denkst du vielleicht g'rad an mich  
Dann singe ich ein Lied für dich  
Von 99 Luftballons  
Und dass so was von so was kommt.”

“She’s singing in German. I can understand what she is saying!” He is so excited that he can understand it, he doesn’t stop to think about what he is saying to you. The excitement he feels must have been easy to see, as you laugh at his eager face. He doesn’t care, you both are smiling and he is listening to the words again.

“99 Düsenjäger  
Jeder war ein großer Krieger  
Hielten sich für Captain Kirk  
Das gab ein großes Feuerwerk  
Die Nachbarn haben nichts gerafft  
Und fühlten sich gleich angemacht  
Dabei schoss man am Horizont  
Auf 99 Luftballons.”

“It’s called [Ninety-nine Red Balloons](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LGZh5Wp_yks), in English anyways, not 99 air balloons like the original German. Guess it’s close enough.” Your comment takes a minute for him to register, his attention on the words he is hearing. When he realizes you are waiting for a response, he waits until the singing stops for the musical bridge, then turns to you.

“I like it. It’s,” he pauses, searching for the right word to describe how the song makes him feel, here in the Jeep with you, heading away from all the pain of the past few weeks. The past years, if he is honest with himself. “It makes me feel hope.”


	9. Maximum Stopping Power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [14 Tips for Winter Driving - Berne Broudy](https://www.outsideonline.com/1920576/14-tips-winter-driving)  
>  Dec 17, 2013  
> Spitzner’s Top Tips For Winter Driving  
> 6\. It’s okay to hit anti-lock brakes hard for maximum power. The tires won’t lock—your car’s computer will manage the hydraulic pressure and bring your car to safe smooth stop. If you squeeze the pedal lightly, you won’t tap your car’s maximum slowing power.
> 
>  
> 
> [Flying Biscuit Cafe, Charlotte, NC to Super 8 Motel, Decatur area, Atlanta, GA](http://tinyurl.com/y7l8nc4c)

_“It makes me feel hope.”_

Your smile at his statement, followed by the clear, light laugh you’ve let loose before, fills Bucky with a warmth he never thought he’d feel again. For a moment he lets himself believe this isn't just a brief moment locked in his memories, outside the hell his life has been for far too long. Shifting in his seat, he adjusts his left leg, crossing it up onto his knee, trying to get more comfortable. He finally finds a spot where he is leaning partly against the door and partly against the seat. This allows him to watch and still see everything else around him. Most especially, it lets him watch you. 

After several minutes of listening to the songs, to the sounds of the cars on the road, and to the sound of your voice as you in with song after song after song, Bucky works up the nerve to speak. 

“How long have you been doing this? Driving, I mean.”

You have to think about it for a minute. Your whole life had been spent on the road, one way or another, but the driving part, being on your own, is a subject you don’t really want to talk about. Something inside you pricks at your thoughts, prompting you, urging you to talk to this stranger, this runaway. Perhaps it has to do with the sense of shared pain that you had honed in on earlier. From the corner of your eye, you can see him frown a little and turn back toward the window. A glance at your dash clock shows several minutes have gone by since he asked and it’s apparent he’s given up on you giving him an answer.

“Sorry,” you say, clearing your throat, “It’s just...I’ve spent most of my life on the road, first with my parents, and then…” you have to swallow against a sudden lump of emotion in your throat that pisses you off, “after I set out on my own. I’ve been a professional driver for nearly ten years now.”

His eyes dart back to look you over. Watching him in your peripheral vision, you see a moment of disbelief, followed by something that might have been him remembering something. He gives you a nod and accepts the answer you gave him without a question. It’s a relief, because you aren’t sure you could have talked about it more without getting emotional. Quiet ensues, broken by the music coming from the satellite radio, mostly 80s and 90s rock with a few heavier tunes thrown in for variety. This is one of the better stations out there, not too much gabbing and nothing too light in the musical choices. 

After the third or fourth time you sing an entire song, start to finish, he starts asking you questions about all the music you know, which just happens to be your favorite subject. You answer him, most of the time absentmindedly, as your attention is often divided between the traffic and what he asks. Flashing a grin over at him from time to time, just to let him know you really are listening, you find he is always watching you, his eyes hooded now, guarding any emotions he might be feeling. 

“What is your code name?” It had been awhile since he’d said anything, then this comes out of his mouth. 

The question takes you off-guard, coming as it does in the middle of you talking about the lawsuit that Led Zeppelin has had to fend off for several years due to some other musician claiming the opening riffs were stolen from him. You stop mid-rant about how people try to ride on the coattails of those who have gotten famous and close your mouth, frowning.

Processing the question in your head, it takes you several seconds before it makes sense enough for you to come up with an answer. “Well, I kinda inherited my handle from my dad, since he no longer is out on the road.”

The words you’re saying aren’t false, but they definitely aren’t revealing the whole picture to anyone who doesn’t know you. You smirk a bit, fighting to keep from scowling at the road while you deal with the pain of memories you’ve managed to avoid for months now. The puzzlement on Bucky’s face is what prods you on, reluctant though you may be to talk about it.

“He was, and now I am, DJ Musicman. Mostly cuz he’s the one that taught me to love music. He was always singing along to songs on the radio. Cassettes and then CDs, we had tons of them. Mom was always complaining about how much room they took up.” 

You didn’t realize you’d sniffed, or that you’d stopped talking, until his hand is resting on your arm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause you pain.”

Looking down at his fingers, still gloved, gently resting on your elbow, heavy despite his light touch, you aren’t concerned about how dangerous this man could be. If he was the stone-cold killer every rumor and story made him out to be, why would he be comforting you when you’ve made yourself sad with thoughts of your parents? Taking your left hand from the wheel, your right one holding everything steady, you lay your fingers on his. 

“It’s alright, Buck, I miss them, but they were losers. They raised me on the road, running shady jobs and never an honest day’s work out of either of them. God help me, I love them but my life’s been better since I’ve been on my own.”

You can feel his reaction in the way his fingers twitch. Placing your hand back on the wheel, you take a quick peek at his face, expecting to see the usual surprised recoil that most people give you when you talk this way. It’s probably out of some need to torture yourself that you do, as this isn’t the first time you’ve made this confession and no one has ever understood where you come from.

Every time you’ve said those words to someone, it never fails that they look at you like you’re broken, or a monster. And you have always been inclined to agree, especially to the broken assessment. Which is why it’s a shock to see him regarding you from that hooded gaze, shadowed by the bill of that ragged cap he’d taken from your back seat and placed back on his head. 

His nod of acceptance slices into you, past your defenses, touching you deep inside. It isn’t much more than a tip of his head, but there’s no recoil in his gaze, no horror or fear in his eyes. The corner of his mouth draws up slightly, not quite a smile, but a sign of acceptance. He stops talking for awhile after that, letting you go back to focusing on the road, as if you could now. 

Bucky shifts and leans back in the seat, his head spinning with all the information you’d laid out on all kinds of songs, the music industry, and much more. It was like getting a refresher course in American culture, something he’d missed out on all these years. When he’d asked you about your code name, your answer had shocked him, even more than your statement about your parents. In fact, after what you had said, the fact that you felt the way you did about them made perfect sense to him. 

He’d recognized the handle that you had inherited from your father, though, and to hear it from your mouth made him realize that somehow, some way, he’d gotten incredibly lucky to get you as his driver. DJ Musicman was someone his handlers had talked about over the past few decades, mostly because he was one of HYDRA’s best infiltrators and was known for his connections in the underground sex trafficking circles as well as a fifth columnist and drug runner. 

The man had never been caught. Bucky recalls admiration in the voices of those that talked about him, but of course there’d never been a mention about a daughter. The last he’d heard someone say something was when the Musicman had turned himself in, confessing that his wife had died of cancer and he was done with the road. Now it made more sense. 

A song comes on the radio, U2’s [Sunday Bloody Sunday](https://genius.com/U2-sunday-bloody-sunday-lyrics), the fast beat and harsh, angry lyrics bashing out of the speakers and of course, you join in at full volume. 

_“Broken bottles under children's feet_  
_Bodies strewn across the dead end street_  
_But I won't heed the battle call_  
_It puts my back up_  
_Puts my back up against the wall_

_Sunday, Bloody Sunday_  
_Sunday, Bloody Sunday_  
_Sunday, Bloody Sunday, Sunday, Bloody Sunday (alright)_

_And the battle's just begun_  
_There's many lost, but tell me who has won_  
_The trench is dug within our hearts_  
_And mothers, children, brothers, sisters torn apart”_

“What is this song about?” Bucky’s voice shakes as he whispers the question. 

You glance quickly over your shoulder, then back at the road as you pass another of the many semis that fill the freeways between major cities. The glimpse you catch of his face has you going voiceless in mid-singalong and turning the volume down. Once the road is clear to either side, you look back over at him again. His face has gone pale, eyes wide. Your first thought is that the lyrics are rather graphic.

“Oh, hey, um, yeah. Sorry about that. I never think about how blatant those lyrics are until I hear them again. You okay?”

He gulps and nods, a bit too hastily you think, but you aren’t going to bust him if he wants to bullshit what he’s feeling right now. Certain that he’s just freaked out about the words, you turn your attention back to the road, his question triggering that part of your mind that is filled with all the little bits of music trivia you’ve gathered over your years on the road, listening to music long before there was anything like satellite radio or digital playlists. 

“The song was first released back in 1983 by the Irish punk rock group U2, and it’s about the [NICRA massacre](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bloody_Sunday_\(1972\)) in Derry, Ireland back in the 70s, back when the British army was trying to put down [Irish protesters](https://www.irishtimes.com/news/social-affairs/protesters-in-dublin-call-for-end-to-direct-provision-hell-1.3297264) in the sectarian conflicts of those times. Seems there was a protest and someone started shooting the young men in the streets, even though they were unarmed.” You pause to work your way through a group of trucks and cars, slipping around and through openings with the ease come from your years of practice. 

“Wouldn’t have been so bad, except the [PIRA](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Troubles) vowed revenge and started up a campaign against the [Royal Ulsters](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Royal_Ulster_Constabulary), who were working with the Brits. Lots of bombs after that, as well as all kinds of murders, arson, yeah it was a bloody mess for many years all over Northern Ireland, including Dublin and Belfast.”

 

Traffic clears and you look back to find Bucky with a strange far away look of horrified shock. He sees you looking at him and drops his gaze, shame coloring his cheeks. He mutters, “I remember Belfast.” 

You feel your breath catch and you have to quickly turn back to look out the window, not sure you want to admit to yourself what he had just admitted to you. He leans forward and grabs the dash, lowering his head between his knees. After a few moments of him gripping the dash and looking like he's about to vomit, he murmurs, “And Derry. I was the shooter.” 

He reaches over and switches the radio to a random station, classical as it turns out. It remains there the rest of the way to Atlanta, neither of you willing to look at the other. The only other sound in the vehicle is a weird clicking and whirring noise that you are sure is coming from his arm as he flexes his fingers over and over and over again in agitation. 

=================================

“O Bozhe! Trakhni menya i trakhni moyu mat'!” Natasha’s cursing breaks the silence of the office where she had met up with Steve and Sam to go over the information they’d gathered in their hunt to find out how Bucky had escaped their setup in New York, especially how he’d slipped through their fingers at the Lincoln Tunnel. 

It hadn’t helped that HYDRA had gotten wind of him being there somehow and had sent a troop of their men, dressed as city cops no less, into the tunnel without any concern for the civilians trapped there as well. They were fortunate that only one city bus had been destroyed in the fight. Now, reviewing the video capture that Steve had finagled from Tony’s system, Nat finds that cursing is the only relief they’ll be getting any time soon. 

“What is it, Nat?” Steve’s calm tone belies his hustle to get over to her station to see what she has found. She swivels the monitor towards him and points to the enlarged portion of the screen, showing a license plate on a dark vehicle. The video capture is in black and white so the only thing they can tell about the vehicle is that it’s a black or dark-colored Jeep. The license plate shows the digits DJMS1CMN.

Steve looks at the screen, takes in the license plate information, then looks down at Nat. “Okay, so if that’s a vanity plate, it should be pretty easy to track, right?” 

Nat tsks-tsks at him, shaking her head. “That’s not it. Barton!”

Clint, walking past the door of the office, comes to an abrupt stop, does an about-face and hurries over to Nat’s side. Upon viewing the screen and the plate, he starts swearing and shaking his head. “Fuck, fuck and double fuck. This is not gonna end well, tellin ya, folks.”

Smirking to hide his confusion, Sam peeks around Steve’s shoulder. “What’s got you spy-folk all riled up?” He looks at the screen, looks at Nat and Clint giving each other intense looks of shared memories, looks back at the screen and shrugs. “DJ Musicman? What kind of lame-ass vanity plate is that?”

Nat pops his fingers with hers, exclaiming again in Russian, “Bozhe moi, save me from you soldier-types. That’s the plate for someone I thought was in prison. He’s a known fifth columnist, a runner for all things HYDRA, and anything shady or underground, he’s had a finger, a hand, hell, his whole arm in it until the day he walked up to the doors of Rikers and confessed like he was at church.”

“Is he still in prison?” Steve’s question came quietly into the moment that Nat took a breath, pausing in her diatribe. She smirks at him, her dimples showing as she points to the second monitor screen on her right. There, showing live feeds in a rotating pattern for all twelve sections but one, is a CCTV feed for [Florence ADX](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Florence_ADX), the federal supermax prison in Florence, Colorado. The one feed that is currently focused on a single prisoner shows an older man with a neatly trimmed, fashionably long beard, graying hair and a smile that makes his eyes crinkle. He is watching the camera and every 30 seconds or so, waves as though greeting whoever is watching him. 

“That’s him,” Nat says with a shudder running through her slight frame. 

“How does he know he’s being watched?” Sam makes a face, creeped out by the directness of the man’s stare. 

“The camera isn’t moving right now,” Clint volunteers the information. Tapping a key, the monitor cuts off and goes back to showing other information they’ve gathered on this manhunt. 

“So who is driving with those plates, if he’s there?” Steve looks down at Nat, a wrinkle showing up between his brows. 

“There was someone that he left all his possessions to when he went to prison,” she types furiously for a few moments to bring up the information so they can all see it. Scrolling down what looks like a simple will, she stops and points at a name. Everyone looks, but only Clint whistles at the sight of it.

“One of the stories I’ve heard about Mr. Musicman there,” Nat begins talking again, her voice soft as though not wanting to bring too much attention to herself, “is that he was the focus of a sting operation to catch the ringleaders for a sex trafficking group that operated out of Yuma. The story goes, he gave a young woman to the head of the biker gang there that various agencies had their eyes and ears on. Rumor had it she was his daughter, even though there isn’t any official record of him having a kid with his wife.”

Clint is nodding in agreement. He knows this story and picks up where Nat stops. “The girl was no more than 13 or 14 at the time, so about mmm,” he shrugs, “ten years ago, I guess it was. That would fit for someone driving professionally with that plate now.”

Nat nods. Steve and Sam look at each other, then look at Nat. Sam speaks first. “Well, tell us the rest of the story.”

“Not much to tell, really. The leader ended up dead after a few months, the feds moved in and arrested a bunch of the other guys, they found around 30 or 40 young women and returned them to their families. Operation Princess Bride was declared a success.”

“Princess Bride? You’re joking, right?” Sam’s voice is full of disbelief. 

“How is that a success if they didn’t…” Steve stopped in the middle of his sentence and groaned. He folded his arms and rested the bridge of his nose on his finger and thumb. “Lemme guess, Musicman was the feds’ insider so they cut him a deal and he walked with the girl, right?”

“Almost.” Nat looks disgusted and pleased at the same time. She pats Steve on the forearm. “The girl was never picked up by the feds. She disappeared just before they raided the compound where they’d been tracked to, but no one else could have killed the leader. They were all in the other buildings when the feds hit ‘em.”

A beep interrupted anything Steve might have said, bringing everyone’s attention to the monitors sitting to the left of Nat’s station. She stands and Sam steps back to let her get over to that workstation. She peers at the monitors, then waves everyone over to see what she’s found. There, in the browser showing DMV registrations, the license plate DJMS1CMN shows as being registered to one Dani California, age 24. Only the accompanying screen of the federal database shows that the license, supposedly issued in Arizona, is a false one, linked to a false social security number and flagged by the FBI as under suspicion and being watched. 

Nat looks at the guys around her and gives them her best smile. “Guys, I think we might need a little help with this.”


	10. Skidding Sideways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [14 Tips for Winter Driving](https://www.outsideonline.com/1920576/14-tips-winter-driving) \- Berne Broudy  
>  Dec 17, 2013  
> Spitzner’s Top Tips For Winter Driving  
> 7\. Stability control works in conjunction with ABS. All passenger-carrying vehicles are now required to have this feature, which selectively applies braking pressure to one side or the other when your car is skidding sideways to keep the vehicle as straight as possible.
> 
> Warnings: slight violence; mention and signs of PTSD
> 
> Map: [Super 8 Decatur/Downtown Atlanta, GA - Jackson, MS - Dalla, TX](http://tinyurl.com/y9pw3nw7)

You pull into the parking lot of the Super 8 just outside of Atlanta around 6 in the evening, having hit rush hour traffic on the east side of the city that delayed you by nearly an hour. This made you even more cranky than you’d normally be for having stayed awake 24 hrs. The tension of the last 3 hours hadn’t helped any. Buckminster, or whatever his real name was, had totally withdrawn from interacting with you after that breakdown he’d had. Curling up in his seat facing the door, he’d covered his head with both arms after awhile and hadn’t stirred in nearly 2 hours. It’s obvious he’s suffering from PTSD and whatever trauma might come from being kept alive way longer than a normal person might have been, but all you think and hope is that he doesn’t wreck your Jeep or try to attack you for any reason. 

Enhanced soldier or not, he’s in for a surprise if he does, you remind yourself, though you wonder if your slight skills are up to something like him. Someone, you remind yourself. He’s shown he still has humanity inside him, which is better than a lot of men you’d known in your past. But whatever knowledge and training he possesses, you’re sure he’s never seen a taser, or had one used on him. Not to mention, you have your knives. The one you’d pulled on him at your storage unit isn’t the only one you carry on you, and you have more stashed here in the Jeep. 

Taking a deep breath to finish calming yourself after your mental pep talk, you feel steady enough to wake him up so you can get checked in to your room. Luckily, you’d already paid ahead of time, so this shouldn’t take long. You reach out your hand and touch his back, laying your palm on his ribs. The feel of him breathing is comforting. At least he’s relaxed and calm, you think. 

In a blink of an eye, his metal arm wraps back around your’s, pinning your forearm under it, holding your arm out straight in a grip that you know will dislocate your elbow if you struggle. The rest of him whirls around in his seat, his other arm coming up to block your throat, shoving you back against the window of the driver’s side door. Your head hits the glass with an audible “thwok!” and you feel your brain echoing the sound inside your skull. He is laid out over top of you now, eyes wide in shock, nostrils flared as his gaze darts to and fro. 

It takes you a moment to regain your senses and overcome the ringing sensation of your head being bounced off tempered glass, but you still recognize that look. Eyes of summer blue have gone steel grey and cold under the shade of the cap pulled low over his brow. Running on pure instinct and rage, he doesn’t show any signs of recognition as he searches your face and the surroundings to determine what is happening and whether he’s really in danger. You relax your body, forcing your hands to loosen their grip on his shirt, your spine to go lax, letting yourself melt against the door of the Jeep. Bringing a smile to your eyes, you allow a small grin, nothing too wide or showing any teeth, to grace your face. 

“Hey, Bucky, it’s alright, man.” The words slide out in a whisper, barely audible as you try your hardest to not gasp for air, his elbow restricting your windpipe. After a couple of short breaths, you speak again, just as quietly. “Hey, it’s me, remember. Musicman, Dani California, y’know.”

A couple more breaths as he looks around, his gaze softer now as he starts processing his surroundings, starts recognizing what he is seeing and not just reacting to his perceptions. You spread your hands on his arms, pressing gently against his forceful hold on your arm and neck. 

“Didn’t mean to startle you, Bucky. Just wanted to wake you up. We’re still in the Jeep.” 

The pressure of his elbow on your neck eases slightly, allowing more air to enter your throat. Still you take soft, slow breaths, sinking into the rhythm you use for easing your own anxiety attacks. In through the nose, out through the mouth, counting to three each time, until he relaxes even more, his breathing synchronizing with yours. His eyes continue to gain awareness until he is fully cognizant of where he is and what kind of position he has you in. 

The full recognition dawns on him with a burst of awareness that is visible to you in his expression, his eyes and mouth going wide with shock. Withdrawing his arms quickly, his face suffuses with color and he drops his gaze from yours, pulling himself over to his side of the vehicle as though he’d crossed an invisible barrier. 

“Oh dear God, I’m sorry!” he exclaims softly, his accent back in full force. 

You shake your head, waving one hand at him as you adjust yourself in your seat. “Nah, man, I shouldn’t have woke you up so suddenly.” The words come quickly, easily, phrased as an excuse to make it your fault. You hear yourself and stop, pinching your lips together. You’d sworn not to do that anymore, but when faced with such a familiar situation, old habits resurface like a reflex you haven’t learned to control just yet. 

The surprise comes with his next words. “No! It’s not your fault. I should have warned you. Should have stayed awake. I’m sorry.” 

Gazing at his submissive posture, head hanging down, shoulders slumped, eyes downcast, you can only stare for a long minute before collecting your thoughts that have been scattered by something you were definitely not used to seeing. It takes a couple of tries before you can get words out again.

“Well, um, yeah. So uh, like I was trying to say before,” you give a half-hearted chuckle at this not-funny reminder, “we have a room here and I just need to go check in and pick up the key. Stay here, k.” 

Your slight smile is met with a faint nod, his eyes still staring at the floor of the Jeep, the rest of him pulled in on himself as though he is trying to make his body smaller. Exiting the Jeep, you head into the foyer of the Super 8, noting the sliding doors lead onto the small area in front of the desk, then past that is a larger cafe area, tiles freshly mopped up to the cabinets holding the coffee pots and condiments for the continental breakfast offered every morning for those willing to get up at the crack of dawn. Not for you, as you’d rather trade biscuits, cold cereal, traveling strangers, and scrambled eggs for more sleep any day of the week.

As you reach the desk, the black lady behind it surprises you by speaking up, her hand hovering near the phone sitting on the desktop. “You okay, sugar? He didn’t hurt you none, did he?”

You keep your gaze on her, even as she is craning her neck to get a better look at your passenger. This is something you’ve dealt with before and you know the only way to keep her busybody well-wishing goody-goody helpfulness from getting out of hand is to play it down as quickly as possible. That meant not looking out the door at your Jeep, not acknowledging the possibility of any danger, and definitely not giving anyone a reason to think you might be afraid. 

“Nah, I just got careless. He’s been soldiering for a long time now, been away for a long time, and I forgot. I’m tired, he’s tired. Y’know how it is,” you rattle off the explanation smoothly, giving her a slight smile that shows your exhaustion. She responds in kind, nodding as she takes the ledger where you’ve signed the name that you booked the room in.

“Sure do, Dani. I also know what I saw out there. Just wanna make sure there’s not gonna be any po-lice being called around here later on, y’know.” Her smile is wry and hard, but there’s understanding in her eyes as she takes the license you hand her and copies down the information from it. 

“Whew girl, y’all are a long way from home, now. Whatcha’ll doin out this way?” Her friendliness has increased now that she has you pegged as a military wife and from out of state.

“He was up at Bethesda. Just got discharged and doesn’t like to fly. So we drive.” You give a one-shoulder shrug and take the license and the keycard from her highly decorated fingers. “Thanks. When’s breakfast?” you ask as it’s expected of you, not because you plan on being here for the daily gathering. 

“Starts at six, but supposed t’go through nine, though the food don’t usually last that long. You guys wanna sleep in a bit, just call the desk and they’ll hold a couple of plates for you. He’s a soldier, you’re his wife. We like to take care of our military ‘round here, y’know.” Her smile is definitely warmer now, as is her wink and nod. “But if you do need anything, just call. I’ll be here until six a.m., ‘kay.” 

“Thank you. Tell ya what,” you lean closer, as though sharing a secret, “if I call you and order a pepperoni pizza, call the police. Kay?”

She nods ever so sagely at that, giving you a knowing smile. You feel bad, a little anyway, subverting her expectations that way. Again, you feel your past hovering behind your shoulders, waiting to slip up and take over. Shaking and rolling your arms to push away the feelings, you turn and head back out to the Jeep. 

As you get close, your heart leaps for a second as your eyes deceive you into thinking he isn’t there in the seat where you left him. A couple more steps and you see his slumped form leaning forward, head on the dash again. You close your eyes and take a deep breath, conceding to the cynic living in your mind that you’re going to have to talk him back from the ledge he’s gotten himself out onto, metaphorically speaking.

Easing yourself into the driver’s seat, you flip the switch on the radio, moving it away from the classical noise back to one of the local hard rock stations in the area. Korn’s [Coming Undone](https://www.youtube.com/watch?reload=9&v=CSJXle3LP_Q) blasts from the speakers and you can’t think of a more apropos song at this moment.

. . . . . . . . .  
Sing along Mockingbird  
You don't affect me

That's right!  
Deliver it to my heart!  
Please strike!  
Be deliberate

Wait  
I'm coming undone  
Irate  
I'm coming undone  
Too late  
I'm coming undone  
What looks so strong, so delicate

Wait  
I'm starting to suffocate  
And soon I anticipate  
I'm coming undone  
What looks so strong, so delicate

Choke, choke again  
I thought my demons were my friends  
Pity me in the end  
They're out to get me  
Since I was young  
I tasted sorrow on my tongue  
And this sweet chocolate gun does not protect me

That's right!  
Trigger between my eyes  
Please strike!  
Make it quick now!

Wait  
I'm coming undone  
. . . . . . . . . . .

You drive around the building to get to the back door, the one closest to your room, while the song plays, then turn off the vehicle, killing the music. The both of you sit there, you resting your hands and forearms on the steering wheel while watching Bucky, still huddled in on himself, acting like he was trying to shrink or become invisible. Balling your hands into fists, you resist berating him, knowing that wouldn’t help and would probably fulfill his expectations. This needed action, but a very specific type, or you ran the risk of pushing him further into the shell he is attempting to create, one that would eventually bring him to the point of complete withdrawal. 

This wasn’t something you’d been officially or professionally trained in, but you’d spent a lot of time on your own for nearly eight years, not to mention all the time spent traveling with your parents, and that had given you many reading and listening hours. And while your mother hadn’t been a psychologist, she had been a highly-skilled con-artist, which in your mind amounts to practically the same thing. She’d taught you how to read people, how to discover what made them tick, and how to manipulate them. Sighing deeply, you turn to your passenger, knowing what you had to do, though if the stories you’d heard were even half-true, it was going to take all your informal learning and all of your smooth-talking skill to bring him back from this ledge.

“Hey, Bucky,” you start speaking, soft and low, slowly reaching out your hand to lay it on his arm, “I understand what happened and I want you to know that I’m not blaming you for it. You probably don’t know, seeing how you’ve been rather out of touch, but soldiers, they have this thing that happens to them when they've been exposed to a lot of high-stress situations. It’s called Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, yeah. PTSD for short.”

You pause to check his reaction so far. He’s still leaning away from you, but hasn’t flinched or moved away from your touch. A moment’s thought and you slip your hand down his arm to let it rest on his forearm. The shifting of the plates on his arm remind you it isn’t flesh, but again, he doesn’t flinch or pull away, so you continue talking.

“Look, what I’m trying to say is that I know you’ve gone through a lot. Probably more than anyone could even guess at, but you aren’t alone. Not anymore. I told you I’d get you to your destination. I am also going to help you figure out how to deal with this and,” you smile thinking about this next part, “I’ll show you how to survive living in today’s world.”

It has just popped into his head that if he really is this ghost story, this Winter Soldier, then he has no idea how to manage in today’s society. The smile is one emotion you know will be heard in your voice, making it more likely he will hear it and give you a positive response. You flex your fingers a bit, trying to draw his attention to your hand on his arm. Touch in these situations, you've read, helps connect the person suffering the disorder back to the real world.

You reflect a moment for the next bit. There’s a hint of what you are thinking tickling your brain and you want to make sure you get it just right. “I know you aren’t completely gone. You still have humanity within you. It may not seem like it right now, but think about this. You didn’t harm me, well,” you chuckle and shake your head, very gently, “except a bump on my hard head. The point is, you could have. But you didn’t. As long as you have that inside you, there’s a way through this. We can do this. You can do this. I’ll help you. Trust me, okay?”

A minute ticks by, the digital clock on the dash of the Jeep counting it as it passes. Then another. Another one passes and then your hand is covered with his flesh hand, his palm warm and rough on the back of yours. He grips your hand and shifts in his seat, turning toward you. When his head comes up and he looks at you, tears staining cheeks still blotchy, eyes still puffy, you know he’s made it through this battle. His eyes aren’t as blue as they’d been when you first caught a glimpse of them, but their blue-grey depths are clear and warm. 

Your breath catches a bit at his gaze and it’s a moment of resistance to keep your hands from cupping his cheeks. Still, you tell yourself, he needs some kind of physical touch. Convincing yourself doesn’t take long. “You look like you need a hug.”

At his hesitant nod, you open your arms and allow him to wrap his arms around you. It wasn’t nearly as awkward as you’d expected. In fact, it felt really good, you think as you snuggle down, your head sinking into the crook of his shoulder. The feeling of your heart skipping a beat startles you, leaving you with only one word echoing in your mind as you find your face nuzzled against his neck, breathing deeply of his scent, the metallic tinged sweaty scent igniting a different kind of feeling than anything you’ve felt before.

You feel yourself falling off a ledge you hadn’t even known was there and the only word your brain is whispering to you is “Fuuuuuucccccckkk.”


	11. Keep the Vehicle as Straight as Possible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [14 Tips for Winter Driving](https://www.outsideonline.com/1920576/14-tips-winter-driving) \- Berne Broudy  
>  Dec 17, 2013  
>  **Spitzner’s Top Tips For Winter Driving**  
>  7\. Stability control works in conjunction with ABS. All passenger-carrying vehicles are now required to have this feature, which selectively applies braking pressure to one side or the other when your car is skidding sideways to keep the vehicle as straight as possible.
> 
> Map: [Super 8 Decatur/Downtown Atlanta, GA - Jackson, MS - Dallas, TX](http://tinyurl.com/y9pw3nw7)

_Previously: Your breath catches a bit at his gaze and it’s a moment of resistance to keep your hands from cupping his cheeks. Still, you tell yourself, he needs some kind of physical touch. Convincing yourself doesn’t take long. “You look like you need a hug.”_

_At his hesitant nod, you open your arms and allow him to wrap his arms around you. It wasn’t nearly as awkward as you’d expected. In fact, it felt really good, you think as you snuggle down, your head sinking into the crook of his shoulder. The feeling of your heart skipping a beat startles you, leaving you with only one word echoing in your mind as you find your face nuzzled against his neck, breathing deeply of his scent, the metallic tinged sweaty scent igniting a different kind of feeling than anything you’ve felt before._

_You feel yourself falling off a ledge you hadn’t even known was there and the only word your brain is whispering to you is “Fuuuccckkk.”_

================================

[Money](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-0kcet4aPpQ) \- Pink Floyd  
[Lyrics](https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/pinkfloyd/money.html)

Amazingly, to you anyway, the hug doesn’t get awkward when it ends. Bucky sits up, you sit up, you look at each other, grin and blush a little. Somehow, your brain isn’t flipped out and ready to do anything stupid. Probably because it’s been over 24 hours since you’ve slept and the two most important things on your mind are showering and sleeping, not necessarily in that order. 

“Let’s get the bags in.” 

You manage to get the words out without slurring them, then manage to get yourself out as well. Turns out you didn’t have to worry about it much. Once you were in the room, Bucky did the rest of the heavy lifting. He even got the cooler off the rack on the back end of the Jeep, lifting it and bringing it into the room without breathing hard or struggling. It makes you curious. Is it just an arm, or is he strong all over? Thinking of the muscles that would take doesn’t help you stay calm or prepare you for bed. 

Focusing on the luggage he leaves on his bed helps bring your mind out of the gutter. A medium size duffle bag stuffed with lumps of squarish stuff, probably cash, blue and plain, no identifying brands or symbols on it. Bucky doesn’t look at it after he sets it down in the middle of the bed farthest from the window. He paces around the area, making it feel smaller than it is with his presence. Into the bathroom and out again, around the room and back into the bathroom, his face gone blank. You step in front of him at that point, knowing he won’t stop unless you make him. 

“Hey, let’s order some food and we can take showers while we wait.” You frame it as a statement so he won’t tell you no, but the look of startlement in his eyes has you puzzled. At least until you think back over your words. You laugh and hold out a hand. “No. Separate showers, I promise.”

He relaxes and smiles, that cute blush gracing his cheeks again as he ducks his head to break your gaze. Blinking, you wonder if you’d been staring too long again. Probably. You shrug and grin at him more. It’s not often you find someone looking the way he does that is also bashful. With a careful pat on his arm, you turn back to your suitcase, intending to dig out some clothes as well as a credit card to make the order.

“I can pay for the food, y’know.” His voice is hesitant, but steady. You turn to look at him and he is pointing at the duffle bag, taking a step towards it, an eager puppy-dog look on his face.

“No! Don’t touch that!” You bark at him, spinning around to hold out your hand, wanting to stop him before he does anything rash. You’re pretty sure it isn’t wired to blow, but that doesn’t mean it’s safe to mess with the money. His look of surprise is almost comical, but your senses are dialed up to eleven now. You speak softly, not wanting to alarm him any more than necessary. 

“Tell me where you got the money, hun.” 

“It was with the rifle that I used for the job.” He gulps and now it’s a hang-dog expression that he’s got, drawing down the lines on his face, etching them deeper around his eyes and mouth. “That and the packet that I handed you when I first got in your car. My instructions were to give you the packet, take the bag, ditch the rifle in the river. Did all that. Is it rigged?”

“Most definitely.” You nod, once. “Just not sure how yet. Probably tracer paint packets. Maybe bugs for tracking as well as listening, but they may not yet be activated.”

“What makes you think that?” His eyes are on you now, hopeful and brighter than they’d been moments ago.

“We haven’t had a Quinjet or squad of goons drop on our heads since we stopped. Though that may be just a matter of time. Lemme take a look, see if we can salvage any of it, k?” You ask out of simple courtesy, not sure if it’s worth the risk, but if this is part of your pay, you’re willing to take it.

“Yeah, sure. If you think you can save it, then do it.” Bucky shrugs, nonchalant. 

You aren’t sure if he’s just not aware of what might happen, or if he thinks he doesn’t need this money. One thing is certain. He trusts you more than you trust him, though deep in your gut you fear, or hope, that this status is changing faster than you want it to.

“K, sit down. I don’t need you hovering over me while I look at this.” You motion at him, waving him to the chair at the desk. “Please.”

Once he’s situated, craning his neck to see past you, you pull the bag over to you. It’s certain that there isn’t any motion sensor to set off paint packets, or they’d have gone off already. Especially as neither of you have been that careful in handling the bag and nothing has sounded like a muffled grenade or soaked through the bag’s material. Unzipping the top zipper, you pull it open, leaning away from the opening, just in case. Nothing comes out, nothing explodes. Looking inside, the cash is semi-organized in stacks, just a bit jostled from the rough handling. 

Letting out a low whistle at the amount of green in front of you, you reach in and start removing the packets of cash, setting each of them on the bed in rows. You continue to do this until all the cash has been removed from the bag. Still nothing has exploded or indicated that there’s anything here but green stuff, packets of 20 dollar bills wrapped as bundles of 100 each, the violet straps looking as authentic as any you’ve ever seen. All of the bundles out of the bag, you carefully set the empty duffle on the floor between you and Bucky, not wanting it on your bed where your laptop and phones are, again just in case. Your paranoia has saved you more than once in these types of situations. 

You let your eyes roam over the bundles, not looking for anything in specific, just wondering what was out of the ordinary with them. Resting the elbow of your left arm against your right one, you suck on the tip of your thumb, allowing your mind to go blank, waiting for something to draw your attention. When Bucky starts to say something, you hold up one finger, shushing him, letting him know you’re concentrating. It takes several minutes before your mind brings it to your attention, but that’s when you realize that four of the bundles have a slight separation about midway from their tops. It reminds you of when a slip of paper is in between the pages of a book.

Those four bundles end up on the end of the bed, set aside so you can investigate them later. That’s when you turn your attention to the remaining bundles. You hadn’t counted them, not really, but now you take the time to do so. Turns out you had set them in rows and columns out of habit, and after counting, it’s a 10 by 15 matrix. Adding in the four on the edge, that’s 150 bundles, $2000 each, total of 300K, sitting on the bed in front of you. Over a quarter of a million, more than you’ve ever seen in one place in a very long time, just waiting for you to say it’s safe. 

For a long minute, you think about what you could do with that money. It would be easy. Tell Bucky it’s not worth trusting the bills are safe, stash the cash in a bus stop locker, take him out to Cali and done. The money would sit there for a year or so, then you’d pick it up and disarm it and be scott-free with a quarter mil. You wonder what’s stopping you, then laugh inside your head. It’s obvious what is keeping you here. This adorable, sweet, lost little puppy sitting next to you, waiting for you to take care of this problem, isn’t really what he seems to be. 

Sure right now he’s lost and sweet and gazing at you like you’ve saved his life, but you remember what he looked like in the tunnel, and in the Walmart parking lot. Even then, it hasn’t been the full view of what’s lurking inside his head, or what his body has been trained to do, for years if the stories are true. You’re pretty sure they are. By now you’ve had time to think about what you remember, and it’s just the tip of the iceberg. The Soldier is why you are standing here, working out how to make all this cash safe for him to use to buy his way to freedom. So far, all you’ve seen is a glimpse of his reflection, like looking down a hallway at a mirror, showing you what’s in that room.

_“Money, get back_  
_I'm all right, Jack, keep your hands off of my stack._  
_Money, it's a hit_  
_Don't give me that do goody good bullshit_  
_I'm in the high-fidelity first-class traveling set_  
_And I think I need a Learjet_

_Money, it's a crime_  
_Share it fairly but don't take a slice of my pie_  
_Money, so they say_  
_Is the root of all evil today_  
_But if you ask for a rise it's no surprise that they're giving none away”_

The song by Pink Floyd comes to mind, looking at all that cash sitting there in front of you. Thinking of the words, in conjunction with a mirror, gives you the idea of what you might be looking for, the thing that would make these bundles unsafe. Something high tech. You squat down, bringing the money to eye level. Holding out your hand to Bucky, you make your request. 

“Hand me your smallest knife.”

He chuckles, but the hilt of a small knife hits the palm of your hand rather quickly. The question of where it came from flashes through your mind, pushed quickly out by your need to concentrate. You slide the slender blade under the paper band wrapped around the nearest bundle, then pull the top bill out. When nothing seems to be happening, you pull out several more. None of them appear altered, but you're sure something isn't right. 

About halfway through the bundle, you lift the hilt up to grab the next few bills and catch a glint of something shiny. Carefully removing the knife and laying it on the bed, you pick up the half empty pack, pinching the bills to keep them from falling out. Slowly tipping the packet on its side, you peer into the strap holding the cash together. A layer of gold covers the inside of the paper, with light traces of green running throughout as though it was a circuit board. At the juncture of the overlap, where the ends of the paper are laid together, the gold covers the spot like a piece of tape. If you had broken it, either popping the strap or cutting it, something would trigger. Most likely it was some kind of tracking device or one time signal, but you aren’t about to take a chance. 

“Whew! That was close!” You straighten up and set the packet back on the bed.

“What is it?” Bucky is on his feet, having jumped up when you picked up the cash. 

“The strap is rigged. Looks like a tracker of some kind. Super high-tech..” Your answer is short, revealing your distraction. “I’m not sure, but removing the money probably won’t trigger the signal. It’s gonna take time, though.”

“Why’s that? Can’t we pull the money out of the straps, or will that trigger it?” He picks up one of the untouched bundles and the knife, using the blade to peek under the piece of paper in question. 

“Yes, but I wouldn’t want to do it all at once. That might disturb the - whatever it is inside the strap.” Picking up the half-empty pack you’d been working on already, you remove a few more bills and look inside again. Nothing seems to have changed, but there could be signals sent out and you would have no clue. “I would need something to determine if any signal is being sent out, otherwise they could all go active and we’d have no idea.”

Bucky folds his arms, thinking, his expression dark. Watching him, you see again that glimmer of someone in him that he doesn’t seem to be aware exists. Or he might, but he isn’t happy or comfortable with that other person. The other, the soldier, is the one that planned the job in New York, whatever that had been. He’s the one that knows how to utilize the obviously enhanced capacity that they possess. Bucky is still used to being merely human, limiting him whether he wants to admit it or not. 

Moments like these, when he isn’t being overly conscious of the other, or the changes he’s been through, it’s as if he can tap into that potential and make use of it. You don’t want to interrupt or cause him to question what he is doing, so you remain quiet, waiting to see what he comes up with. It doesn’t take long for him to come up with something.

“If we short them out, then it wouldn’t matter if we broke them, would it?”

“Short them..? Ah, yes! That would work. But how - ?” 

Your question is answered by Bucky grabbing the lamp on the desk and popping the cord loose from the base. He holds up the cord and begins to separate the two pieces.

“Um, Bucky?” You point at the wall where the cord is plugged in. “You might want to unplug it until we get it set up.”

His cheeks are red as he gives you a wry grin, yanking out the plug and setting the lamp off to the side of the desk. Taking the cord up again, he begins stripping the rubber coating from the wires. Meanwhile, you finish clearing off the desk and start transferring the money over to the surface, laying them out like tiles. When they are laid out end to end, he carefully threads the two bare wires under the straps of two rows, then motions for you to step back. You do and he plugs the cord back into the outlet. A loud POP and the smell of smoke fills the room, followed by a small flame on three of the bundles.

“Yikes!” 

You jump forward to put out the flame, only to have Bucky stop you, holding you back with his right arm. With his left, he unplugs the cord and grins back at you over his shoulder. Blushing a bit at the fact that you’d made the same mistake he had, you watch as he casually slaps out the flames on those three bundles, then proceed to remove the ten bundles from the wire and the desk, handing them off to you to put back on the bed. Stacking them off to one side, separate from the four that have something between their bills, you look at the remaining bundles on the bed and on the desk.

“Welp, only a hundred twenty-six to go.” you sigh and start gathering another armful to lay on the desk.

“Don’t you want to check them? See if it worked?” 

You look at Bucky, your mind slightly blank as you ponder his words. It’s been almost twenty-four hours since you’ve slept and though you’ve gone longer without sleep, the events of the day are beginning to take their toll. He gives you a wry grin.

“Go take a shower. I’ll do the rest of these.”

You return his grin, the thought of a hot shower sounding fantastic right now. Handing him the money you’d gathered, you head for your bags. Another POP sounds as you get to the bathroom door, reminding you to remind him not to set off the smoke detector. When you mention it to him, he gives you a puzzled look. Looking at the ceiling, it’s obvious he has no idea what you’re pointing at.

“It’s the round thing up there.” You take a couple of steps to stand under it.

“And it detects smoke?” He looks skeptical.

“Yeah, y’know. In case of fire?” It’s funny and weird that he doesn’t know a simple thing like this. 

“Well, what d'ya know? That’s nifty.” Jumping up to stand on the edges of the two beds, he raises a hand and twists off the cover. Looking down at you he gives you a goofy smile, like a child contemplating a mud puddle. “Go take your shower before you fall asleep on your feet, doll. I got this.”

Pushing aside the emotions that erupt inside at his term of endearment, you take this opening to escape to the bathroom. 

=================================

Bucky’s POV

Lena Horne - [Deed I Do](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J4f1k4BCeIc)

Disabling the smoke detector took hardly any effort, though Bucky made sure that it would be easy to reconnect the wires when it was time to leave. It was a rather ingenious device, he thought, and one he is glad to see as part of this new, modern world. Fires had always been a danger when he was young. Yet here he is, playing with it in more ways than one. 

His mind tempts him with thoughts of you in the other room, the sound of the shower adding to them. Jumping down from his perch on the edges of the beds, he goes back to the desk and sets up the next set of money bundles. The problem is that it becomes routine after a few rounds, giving him time to consider how lucky he is with you as his driver. This doesn’t help with the temptation, but it does keep him from thinking past you wearing some of that lingerie he’d shown you that morning. 

It’s still surreal to him how much he’s learned in the past 24 hours, starting with coming to awareness almost immediately after pulling the trigger yesterday evening. It was as if the soldier had done the job, left instructions for him, then disappeared back into his subconscious. The unusual part was that this time he hadn’t watched from inside his head like he normally had to when the soldier came out to perform. Maybe because this time had been voluntary, he had decided that Bucky needed help in order for them both to survive. 

A twinge of guilt hits Bucky at the thought that he might be hiding from an action of his choice, though like with missions he’d been programmed with, he didn’t remember making the plans for the job he’d done in New york, only the consequences. That and the man he’d killed had been HYDRA, dyed in the wool evil, and one of the ones that had held his brain, his very life and sanity, in hands red with the blood of those he’d killed in the pursuit of world domination. There was no guilt for that kill. 

You come out of the shower and Bucky realizes two things at once. First thing is that you are only wearing a tank top and the shortest pair of shorts he’s seen in a very long time. Second is that he’s done with the money bundles, having finished them while letting his mind ponder his new reality. Both of these means he can go take a shower, something he’s been eagerly awaiting since you had mentioned it. He also realizes that you’re standing at the side of his bed, looking at the money. 

“Um, I, ah, I need to get..” 

He stops mid-sentence when you look over at him, your face glowing from the heat of the shower, a small towel wrapping up your hair, showing the curve of your neck and shoulder, down the length of your arms, past your barely-clothed torso and on down your legs. Desires he hasn’t felt or even thought of in years, decades, flood through him, bringing an instant feeling of awkwardness to him. He flushes and ducks his head, averting his gaze to the money.

“Great job, Bucky! You got them all finished!” You grin and clap your hands. “What did you -? Oh, your clothes and stuff! Right. Sorry, I’m really not used to sharing a room with someone. My bad.” 

You jump onto your bed and roll over to sit up in the middle of it. Bucky can’t help himself but to look as you move out of his way, only to catch an eyeful of your behind, the shorts flipping up just enough to show a bit of cheek until you sit up and cross your legs. Quickly turning to face his bed, he grabs the empty duffle bag.

“Do you think the money is safe to put back in the bag?” he asks you, placing his hand on a stack.

“Yeah, just not those four at the end. Put them on the desk and we can look at them after we get some sleep.” Your voice hounds sleepy and distracted.

Bucky looks over to see you flip open your laptop, which takes him a minute to remember what it is, until images come to mind, letting him place it with some kind of context. He shakes his head, wondering if either of you are really going to be able to sleep much. You remind him of people he’s known in the past that never seemed to sleep much, surviving on coffee and the kind of food, like your protein bar, that most people would rather go without.

“Are you going to actually sleep or just keep yourself awake all night?” Bucky hears the words come out of his mouth before he thinks to stop them and flushes again, glancing over his shoulder to see if you are offended.

You laugh, to his relief. “Yes, I am going to sleep. No worries there. I won’t drive without getting at least six hours. I just need to do my check-ins, take a peek at my messages. Go, take a shower. Don’t worry about staying in too long. The hot water is endless in places like these. It’s why I love hotels.”

Your wave in his general direction, given while your eyes are on the screen in front of you, is the impetus Bucky needs to grab his clean clothes and the bag of toiletries you’d picked out for him at the store and head into the bathroom. The air in there is thick with the steam from your shower and smells of whatever you’d used. Flowers and undertones of other scents, along with your unique smell, tickle his nose, pricking his senses even more awake than they’d been. Groaning silently, he sets his things on the counter by the sink and gets undressed.

As he unzips his pants, he feels a weight at his groin that he hasn’t felt in far too long a time. Glancing down, he isn’t surprised to see his johnson standing at attention. Considering how hard it’s been not thinking about you, his body has obviously been ignoring what he’s tried to tell it. When he’s finished undressing and it’s just grown harder, he shrugs, humming the tune that’s popped into his head, and turns on the water and locks the door. Considering all he’s been through, he figures he deserves to rub one out. After all, it’s not like he’s killing anyone.

_Do I want you?_  
_Oh my! Do I!_  
_Honey, deed I do!_

_Do I need you?_  
_Oh my! Do I!_  
_Honey, deed I do!_

_I'm glad that I'm the one who found you,_  
_That's why I'm always hangin' around you_

_Do I love you?_  
_Oh my! Do I!_  
_Honey, deed I do!_

_Honey, deed I do!_

_Hmm! Honey, deed I do!_  
_I'm glad that I'm the one who found you,_  
_That's why I'm always hangin' around you_

_Oh! Do I love you?_  
_Oh my! Do I!_  
_Honey, deed I do!_

_Ah Deed I Do!_


	12. A well-trained, experienced driver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [14 Tips for Winter Driving](https://www.outsideonline.com/1920576/14-tips-winter-driving) \- Berne Broudy  
>  Dec 17, 2013  
> Spitzner’s Top Tips For Winter Driving  
> 8\. If you are a well-trained, experienced driver with proper tires, threshold braking is better than slamming on the ABS. Squeeze your brake pedal lightly to the point of imminent lockup but not so far you skid.
> 
> Map: [Super 8 Decatur/Downtown Atlanta, GA - Jackson, MS - Dallas, TX](http://tinyurl.com/y9pw3nw7)
> 
> Extra Warning: Masturbation (M & F); sexual imagery; lewd thoughts; fingering (F)

Previously - Chapter 11: _Looking down at you he gives you a goofy smile, like a child contemplating a mud puddle. “Go take your shower before you fall asleep on your feet, doll. I got this.”_

_Pushing aside the emotions that erupt inside at his term of endearment, you take this opening to escape to the bathroom._  
\------  
_You come out of the shower and Bucky realizes two things at once. First thing is that you are only wearing a tank top and the shortest pair of shorts he’s seen in a very long time._

_He also realizes that you’re standing at the side of his bed, looking at the money._

_“Um, I, ah, I need to get...”_

_He stops mid-sentence when you look over at him, your face glowing from the heat of the shower, a small towel wrapping up your hair, showing the curve of your neck and shoulder, down the length of your arms, past your barely-clothed torso and on down your legs. Desires he hasn’t felt or even thought of in years, decades, flood through him, bringing an instant feeling of awkwardness to him._

_When he’s finished undressing and [his johnson]’s just grown harder, he shrugs, humming the tune that’s popped into his head, turns on the water and locks the door. Considering all he’s been through, he figures he deserves to rub one out. After all, it’s not like he’s killing anyone._

===================================

Bucky’s PoV

Naked, Bucky stands next to the tub, wondering how to operate the thing. He knows hot and cold water both come from the spigot, as there is only the one. The question is, with only one handle and no knobs, how does he get it the right temperature. He considers asking you, but just at the thought of opening the door while he’s aroused and having to look at your legs, your arms, your lovely neck, is enough to have him groaning and distracted by the ache at his groin. After that it’s easy to make the choice of moving the handle to see what happens. It turns out the handle rotates and once it gets all the way to the left, the water is hotter than he can ever remember feeling. 

That in itself is enough to have him groaning with pleasure as he steps into the tub and pulls the curtain closed. Standing under the pressure of the water, not too hard, but enough to make itself felt, he sighs deeply. He’s pretty sure he could stay right here for a very long time. Your words come to him on how he can take as long as he wants and suddenly, he feels very grateful. The feeling nearly overwhelms him. Standing there in the shower, he realizes he can relax for the first time since he became aware of himself as more than an asset, than a programmed tool. 

He weeps then, for everything that has been given back to him by those who have freed him. You, the man on the helicarrier, those that fought alongside him. All of them and you have set him on the path to recovering his true self and regaining his full freedom. The gratitude in his heart helps him bear the pain of what he had to do to break free. It takes some time, but after letting his emotions flow for a little while, he begins to regain control. When he does, he realizes his body is still responding to all the unusual stimuli.

“Well, then, I guess we all need some relief.,” he says, looking down at himself. Glancing around, he spots a bottle of oil among those you’d left in the bathroom. Not sure why you would need such a thing, he picks it up and pops the top to sniff at it. Finding that it is scented though rather pungent and slightly bitter, it has a nice overlying scent that definitely reminds him of you. The texture is smooth on his hand and feels refreshing, so he feels safe using it for his purpose. 

The tingle of sensation makes him extremely aware of the friction his hand has against the delicate skin of his cock. It almost burns, though it isn’t enough to put him off, as he is way too horny by now to even consider not going through with this. With the scent of your soaps still filling the steam in the air, he leans against the wall of the shower, his metal hand resting by the shower head. His flesh hand, covered in the scented oil, wraps around himself, eliciting a groan of pleasure that he quickly dampens. Thinking of you is one thing, but the thought of you coming through the door to find out why he is making such noise is not something he wants right now. 

Biting his lip, he closes his eyes and begins slowly stroking himself, the image of you standing there next to his bed, the towel twisted up on top of your head, exposing the curve of your neck, exciting him even as the friction of his palm and fingers increases his hardness. The image shifts to having you under him, your softness countering his hardness, his sharpness cushioned by your curves. In his mind, you reach willingly for him, ignoring the ugliness of his metal monstrosity, your touch soothing the ache in his chest and head until it’s only you and him, lost in ecstasy. 

The crunch of tile under the grip of his metal fingers brings Bucky back to his senses, his face burning with fulfilled lust and embarrassment. He eyes the scrapes and holes left in the shower tiles and wonders if the hotel will charge you extra to replace them. Chagrined, he lets loose of himself and grabs the closest bottle from his group and opens it, then stops and reads the label. It’s the conditioner you’d picked out for him. Setting it down, he takes a moment and picks out the body wash and proceeds to scrub himself raw. 

The scrubbing is therapeutic because he can’t remember the last time he was able to bathe and not just be washed down like an animal. It’s also a bit of inner cleansing, as he tries to erase the slightly dirty feeling he has from jacking off while thinking about you, when you’re in the next room, probably asleep. He, the old him that is back in charge, would like to think you’d be open to his advances, but it’s been a very long time and he knows that he is not the same man he used to be. 

Nevermind the fact that you’ve sworn to him, on a handshake, that you would be with him until the end of the journey. His experience has been that anyone can say anything, only actions mean something. Besides, he knows you are only doing a job. What may be a passing fling for both of you might be taken the wrong way by those that are chasing him if he involves you. The one thing he doesn’t want is for you to end up a victim to his monster. 

The scrubbing down of his body has the unexpected side effect of directing his thoughts back to you as he decides not to involve you in anything more than getting him where he needs to go. His body, shut down for so long, responds eagerly to the stimuli of hot water, wonderfully smelling soap, and the vigorous rubbings, until he is hard once again. Shaking his head at this development, not an unpleasant one, he takes this one a little easier and sits in the tub, letting the water run over him as he manipulates himself to release, his thumb rubbing over his sensitive head until he is quivering before he explodes. The fact that when he closes his eyes, he sees the curve of your breast and the shape of your thighs as he images thrusting himself up into you, has nothing to do with the lingering smells here in the steamy room. Or so he tells himself. 

He washes his hair and uses the stuff labeled conditioner, as you had insisted he would need it to get his hair back in order, before his body decides it has one more to go to find relief. Laughing softly, knowing this one is due to his imagination wandering while he had his eyes closed to rinse his hair, he makes quick work of it, his stomach grumbling for food too much of a distraction to do more. Lyrics from some half remembered song comes to mind as he's getting close to climax.

_“I don't buy sugar you just have to touch my cup_  
_You're my sugar it's so sweet when you stir it up_  
_When I'm taking sips from your tasty lips_  
_Seems the honey fairly drips._  
_You're much sweeter goodness knows_  
_You're my honeysuckle rose”_ \- [[Honeysuckle Rose](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_5JiD9yxL4U) \- Fats Waller - [lyrics](https://www.lyricsbox.com/fats-waller-honeysuckle-rose-lyrics-w8xw9bh.html)] 

Out of the shower, he wipes the mirror over the sink clear of the condensation and lays out the shaving items you’d bought him. Again, he finds himself moved by how much you have helped him already, even without knowing him. You are some kind of mystery to him at this point, one that he contemplates as he shaves. 

It’s obvious to him that you’ve had training, even though you don’t seem to recognize it as such. The sniper rifle in the alleyway of the storage place was too well done to just be the product of a few hunting trips. The coolness you show under pressure also tells him that you’ve been worked on, most likely by your parents, and raised from childhood to be this way. He knows you consider yourself better off without your parents around, but the question remains as to why you had been trained to be like this. Having a good idea of the type of person your father had been when working with HYDRA, Bucky is sure it wasn’t anything good. Still, you seemed to have escaped without being tainted by that darkness and, he swears to himself as payback for everything you’ve done for him, you won’t be. 

Checking his face in the mirror, the ugly seam on his left shoulder catches his eye, leading it down to the metal arm. The maintenance mode on it seems to have dried it out after the shower, not that any water would have gotten inside it. As far as he is aware, it’s completely waterproof. Still, it is a feature that the media has picked up on, according to that news report that had been showing in the restaurant. He studies it for a long minute, wondering if he should let you see it. You hadn’t shied away from anything else about him yet. This makes it one of the easier decisions of the day. 

Bucky dresses in the new clothes from the stuff he’d picked out with the help of Grigory, deciding on the sleeping pants and a black short-sleeved shirt. He looks in the mirror after putting them on and has to admit, if it weren’t for the shadows under his eyes and the bizarreness of his hideous metal arm, he didn’t look half bad. 

The smell of food, hot and spicy and meaty, hits his nostrils and has his stomach gurgling with anticipation, breaking his chain of thoughts about how he looks. Gathering up his dirty clothes, wishing he could burn them or throw them out, he goes to leave, then stops and sets them down. He knows it’s probably not going to affect anything, but it makes him feel better about his lewd thoughts as he splashes some of the cologne from the hygiene kit over his freshly shaven jaw and throat, hoping you’ll notice, even if it’s just a little. With a wry grin at his own conceit, he grabs the clothes once more and heads out into the room.

=================================

Your PoV

The bed is extra-firm, the way you’ve gotten used to it over the years, but it’s still softer than the seats of your Jeep and more welcome after 24 hours of being on the road. You’d taken a short snooze in the shower while the hot water pounded the travel soreness from your muscles and it has given you the necessary energy so you can follow your regular routine before getting some much needed sleep, including ordering some pizza for you and your guest. Pulling up the website as he heads into the bathroom, you acknowledge that the stimulation of the shower has also awakened another need in you. 

This could be blamed on the man that has just stepped out of the room, but you don’t feel like admitting that there is more than a passing attraction at the moment. Something about being so close to him, along with the minor adventures you’ve shared, has you trying to salvage some part of your dignity from the crash and burn you’ve been heading towards all day. With your history, it’s reflexive to avoid entanglements, and every step you’ve taken today has led you deeper and deeper into what your mother would have termed a briar patch. 

With the pizza ordered and its arrival still 45 minutes away, you turn your attention to the business of getting this trip back on track. You lay out the six phones you carry with you, four from major carriers and two burner phones with just a few numbers each programmed into them. One of the main ones you only use for maps and online searches, while each of the others has a certain set of contacts. None of them carry the same information, as that would cause problems if any of them fell into the wrong hands. 

The first phone you pick, the one you had used to contact Travis, is also the one that has the picture you’d taken of Bucky on it. Before you can stop to think about why, you have your photo gallery open and are looking at that quickly taken shot. He had glanced up from eating and grinned back at you, responding to your smile. It had felt traitorous to send that picture to Travis. Considering that feeling leads you down that slippery slope you've been trying to avoid all afternoon. 

It probably doesn’t help that you had started off kissing the man before you’d even gotten a name, though at the time it had seemed innocent enough. The rest of the day has only emphasized how attractive he is, including the dangerous bits like having a metal arm, being hunted by government agencies, and suffering PTSD. You find yourself wondering about the metal arm. 

You consider the first time you’d noticed the strangeness of it, in the Jeep, laying over it, how it felt wrapping around you. The moment at the storage unit when you’d both been side by side, nearly every part of your bodies aligned and touching. Heat bursts into existence at your core, giving you the sudden thought of how it might feel to have both of his arms, metal and flesh, wrapped around you and holding you against him. Laying back on the stacked pillows, you start to let your mind wander over images of him, much like how you contemplated your favorite movie stars some nights. Your hands begin to wander as well, sliding down your torso, over hardened nipples and in between your thighs to rub over your aroused nether regions. 

A loud moan from the bathroom has you upright and worried, for about three seconds. Then  
your mind interprets what you heard and you realize what must be happening for him to make that noise. Suddenly your fantasy takes on new life as your imagination runs wild. The thought of him standing naked in the shower, hot water running down his body, his hand at his loin stroking his hard cock does things to your mind and body that gives you a very naughty, very risque idea. 

Rolling over to the side of your bed where your luggage sits, you quickly pull out the bag that holds your personal items. Sorting through the items stashed in there, you find the one you had in mind and pulls it out, along with a small tube of scented lubrication. You pop open the case to stare at it a moment. It's the largest of your dildos, made of clear, heavy plastic with criss-cross ridges from the head to the base. The base is tapered and is made to be gripped, while the head is an idealized shape that you've never seen on anyone you've been with. But then, this is fantasy, in a way.

You squeeze a nice size dollop on the head then glance at the bathroom door. Not wanting him to hear you, like you'd heard him, you click on your random play list and set the laptop on the side of the bed between you and the bathroom door. Sliding your feet beneath the sheet on your bed, you hold it up and bring your toy under with you. Anticipation and the thought of Bucky stroking himself in the hot shower had you moaning and biting your bottom lip as you spread your thighs and set the head against your slit. 

Just the weight of it on your clit is enough to have you twitching and taking a deep breath before adding pressure to get it sliding in. The width of this one is enough that you don't normally use it, but as horny as you are right now, you just want to be filled up and getting off as fast as you can. Heat from the warming gel adds to the sensation, your hips bucking and rocking to open yourself more. Once in, you start to close your eyes, then change your mind. If he walks out and see you, you want a few seconds warning to at least stop your motion. 

You’re panting at he fullness of your vagina, the ridges and extra width stretching and touching every part of you, so you adjust your grip and begin rocking. Waves of pleasure, enhanced by the images playing in your head of Bucky's broad shoulders, lean waist and thick thighs quickly gets you to the point of no return and you fall over the edge, quivering and shaking at the strength of your release. You relax a moment and hear the song playing from your laptop, uncanny in its appropriateness.

_“Hangin' round downtown by myself_  
_And I had too much caffeine_  
_And I was thinkin' 'bout myself_  
_And then there she was_  
_In platform double suede_  
_Yeah there she was_  
_Like disco lemonade_

_I smell sex and candy here_  
_Who's that lounging in my chair_  
_Who's that casting devious stares_  
_In my direction_

_Mama this surely is a dream_  
_Yeah mama this surely is a dream”_ \- [[Sex and Candy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-KT-r2vHeMM) \- Marcy Playground - [Lyrics](https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/marcyplayground/sexandcandy.html)] 

With a chuckle, you start to remove the dildo, only to discover you have another orgasm building simply from lying there thinking about the man in the shower. You listen and hear the shower still going. Pleased at that, you start grinding again, this time taking it a bit slower. Sliding your other hand down, you rub gently on your clit, lifting your hips as you slide up and down, the dildo slipping easier now that you're juiced up and eager for this second release. This builds up even more, making you wonder if you'll be able to reach the crescendo. You sit halfway up, bracing yourself on one hand, the other wedged between your thighs and against your slit. The dildo shifts a bit deeper, hitting your g-spot and sending you crashing over onto your side with the force of your orgasm. 

It takes you a few minutes to come down from that one. Slowly pulling your hand from between your legs, you pet yourself, soothing your jangled nerves with gentle touches on your nipples and around your breasts. Finally, you're able to slide it out, though it takes a few more minutes until you can wipe it off and put it back in its case. Then the room really does smell like sex, at least like yours, anyway. You grab the smell-good spray from your bag and use it generously before hopping out of bed and straightening your clothes. 

Checking the time, you find you still have ten or fifteen minutes until the pizza arrives, so you stretch out on the bed and grab your laptop. This time you can actually focus on what you need to do. With a grin, you also grab your phone that has the pics of Bucky and open your Snapchat. You take a quick pic of you on the hotel bed and send it off to Travis with the message that you'd arrived safely. After that you get lost in your routine until the knock on the room door lets you know that the pizza has arrived.

The delivery guy turns out to be a gal, short and perky, her company hat holding a ponytail threaded through the back. She gives you the eye and is bold enough to flirt with you, so you return the flirt. You keep the door mostly closed though, as well as continue glancing around the parking lot of the hotel. Now is a perfect time for someone to try and bust you, if they knew where you were. The moment passes without any moves on her part other than a casual offer to join her after work for a party, gracefully declined.

Back inside, door closed and pizza laid out on Bucky's bed, you grab a slice and open the police scanner on your laptop. Nothing shows up as unusual activity, but you keep it open to listen as you finish your check-in routine.

Bucky comes out of the bathroom shaved and clean and suddenly that heat is back in your gut. It's not fair how amazing he looks now. The shadows under his eyes will probably go away once he starts getting decent sleep and with the stubble gone, his jawline is sharp as any model's. You grin at him, hoping he doesn't catch the hunger you feel, or passes it off as wanting more food.

“Looking good, Buck,” you murmur, holding out a plate piled high. “Pizza’s here.” 

The grin he gives you in return is all it takes to have you free-falling off that same cliff you'd found earlier when hugging him. Keeping your grin in place, the words in your head fade away into the future.

'Fuuuck, this is gonna hurt when I hit bottom.’


	13. Threshold braking is better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [14 Tips for Winter Driving](https://www.outsideonline.com/1920576/14-tips-winter-driving) \- Berne Broudy  
>  Dec 17, 2013  
> Spitzner’s Top Tips For Winter Driving  
> 8\. If you are a well-trained, experienced driver with proper tires, threshold braking is better than slamming on the ABS. Squeeze your brake pedal lightly to the point of imminent lockup but not so far you skid.
> 
> Map: [Super 8 Decatur/Downtown Atlanta, GA - Jackson, MS - Dallas, TX](http://tinyurl.com/y9pw3nw7)

Previously: _Checking the time, you find you still have ten or fifteen minutes until the pizza arrives, so you stretch out on the bed and grab your laptop. This time you can actually focus on what you need to do. With a grin, you also grab your phone that has the pics of Bucky and open your Snapchat. You take a quick pic of you on the hotel bed and send it off to Travis with the message that you'd arrived safely. After that you get lost in your routine until the knock on the room door lets you know that the pizza has arrived._

_The delivery guy turns out to be a gal, short and perky, her company hat holding a ponytail threaded through the back. She gives you the eye and is bold enough to flirt with you, so you return the flirt. You keep the door mostly closed though, as well as continue glancing around the parking lot of the hotel. Now is a perfect time for someone to try and bust you, if they knew where you were. The moment passes without any moves on her part other than a casual offer to join her after work for a party, gracefully declined._

_Back inside, door closed and pizza laid out on Bucky's bed, you grab a slice and open the police scanner on your laptop. Nothing shows up as unusual activity, but you keep it open to listen as you finish your check-in routine._

\-------------------------------------------

Walking into the number 212 room of the Holiday Inn Express & Suites, Natasha removes the company hat that she’d borrowed for the pizza driver part she’d just played. Shaking out her hair, she laughs at the ridiculousness of the situation. Steve and Sam both have their feet propped up on the bed while they shove pizza in their mouths. Clint is leaning over a group of monitors showing the outside of the hotel she’d just come from, also with pizza hanging from his mouth. Including the hundred dollars she’d just given the driver for the use of his car, hat, and jacket, as well as the pizza they’d ordered to get the driver to show up in the first place, she figures this is one of the more expensive pizza parties she’s ever thrown. 

“Whelp, she’s there, that’s for sure.” She flings the hat onto the bed and sheds the jacket. “Didn’t see him, though. Could have been in the shower. The room was humid and her hair was wet.”

“Yes! Let’s get over there -” Steve is up on his feet in an instant, dropping his slice to land half-on, half-off the plate as he tips the chair back in his eagerness.

“Sit down, Rogers!” 

The command comes from the head of the bed nearest the window, even as Natasha is holding up her hand in objection. Cold and commanding, the voice neatly freezes the frenetic energy around the tables taking up most of the room’s remaining area. It belongs to a slim, dark-haired woman dressed in a black, button-down shirt and black cargo pants tucked into slim, black leather boots. The woman, Melinda May, hasn’t moved from her position and has her arms folded, a slight smile on her lips. 

Steve, Sam, and Clint all sheepishly sit back in their chairs, Steve having to set his upright again before he can do so. Natasha finds herself dropping into an at-ease stance at the tone of command, a move that gains her a smirk from Melinda and a nod. She takes this to mean she can relax, so drops to the corner of the bed nearest the door. It’s highly amusing how quickly Steve has been to obey Melinda’s every command, though Nat doesn’t let her amusement show. 

“Thank you, Steve.” Melinda nods her head at all three of the men, “but we can’t go barging in there or they’ll run and we’ll have a much harder time catching them once they know we’re after them for sure. Right now, she is probably only feeling a bit of nerves in her gut. This could be from the HYDRA-paid cops sniffing around. If you spook her, she goes off-road, off the grid, and we’ll be lucky to find them again before they reach the West Coast.”

“Right.” Steve nods in agreement. “How do we tell if he’s with her? If she’s obviously on alert, she’s not going to let anyone into her room right now.”

Nat clears her throat a little, then speaks when all eyes are on her. “Well, the bed near the door had her stuff on it, laptop, phones, the covers messed up. The other bed held only the duffle bag we used for the money. My guess is she’d just gotten out of the shower, leaving him still in it. Probably just had sex.”

“How do you know that?” Sam’s puzzled look scrunches his face.

“On the bed or in the shower?” Clint grins eagerly as he asks.

“What!”

Steve’s outrage comes out louder than either Sam’s question of her veracity or Clint’s quest for the dirty details. Nat smiles. She’d expected Steve to be outraged, but it didn’t make it any less funny. 

“She had that look, y’know, sleepy-eyed but alert, her face was relaxed, a little smile on her lips, very open to flirting. The bed didn’t look that wrecked, so I’d bet on the shower. Plus, I caught a hint of that scent, along with a fresh dose of spray. She’s very attractive, and I bet it’s been a long time since he’s had -”

“Whoa, hold on. How can you even say that?” Steve is upset, waving his hands at Nat, even as he closes his eyes and shakes his head. “He just met up with her yesterday and she’s a professional, right?”

“That scent?” Sam looks at Nat, an odd mix of curiosity and respect in his gaze. “You could smell her?”

Clint’s snort serves as a comment, relieving Nat from having to say anything. The smirk on his face does prompt her to glare sharply at him, though. She blanks out her expression when Steve opens his eyes to glare at her, his brows furrowed. He remains still for a moment, his body tensing as she watches him, until he springs up and heads out the door, knocking over his chair again. From below comes a thump on the floor along with a muted yell.

Melinda jumps up from her seat against the headboard and hops over the end of the bed to land on the floor and rush out after Steve. Her voice can be heard at first, then goes quiet. Clint and Sam both look over at Nat. She rolls her eyes and lounges on the end of her bed, projecting her nonchalance in defence of herself. Another minute or two goes by, then Steve burst in the door and yanks open the connecting door between this room and the other that they’d booked. Melinda follows, sauntering in and glaring at Nat. Stopping next to her prone form, she smacks Nat’s calf.

“Stop provoking him. You know that’s a sensitive subject.” 

“Agreed,” Nat replies silkily, looking like a cat enjoying a bowl of cream. 

Melinda’s glare as she folds her arms has Nat straightening up and wiping the smirk from her countenance. 

“If you people can’t take this more seriously,” Melinda frowns at Nat, then shoots a glare at Sam and Clint off to her left, “then I’ll leave all of you here to deal with this mess and go back to my desk. Is that clear?”

Affirmative murmurs come from both of the guys while Nat give her a short nod and looks chastened. 

“What’s Steve gonna do?” Sam stands and goes to open the dividing door.

“He’s going to take a jog over there and keep an eye on things from the parking lot next door. He’ll have a comm so we can talk to him and vice versa. That way, if anything happens, we’ll at least have one person onsite.”

“What could happen?” Sam’s question brings scoffs of unamused laughter from Clint and Nat as Melinda shakes her head.

“Dealing with HYDRA? Anything. Most likely cops, though.” She starts to say more but the door between the rooms opens, revealing Steve in sweatpants and a white t-shirt, a light jacket and sneakers completing his outfit.

“I need a comm -” His request is cut off by Clint handing him his gear. He hooks the earpiece over his left ear as Melinda steps up and gives him some last minute instructions.

“Remember, don’t engage them. You’re there to keep an eye on them, not capture them. If something happens and they spook, call us. If cops show up, call us. If anyone else shows up -”

“Yeah, I know. Call you.” A mix of emotions cross Steve’s face, fleeting in their quickness before his usual stoic expression locks back in place. 

“I mean it, Steve.” Melinda is standing between him and the exit, making him look at her. “If you lose your focus, you risk losing your team. Not to injury, but to paperwork. This gets out and someone is going to have something to say about it. Keep your cool, use your head and not your gut, and we can do what we set out to do. Got it?”

Steve is fully engaged with Melinda by the end of her speech. He looks a bit chagrined but definitely less distraught. Nat is impressed, if a bit annoyed. Her idea had been to get Steve riled up, then have him bust in on the two they were tracking and engage them. Then the rest of the team could swoop in and nab the Soldier, with Steve’s help, and bring in Musicman’s daughter as a bonus. 

With Melinda’s plan, they have to wait until the two are out and away from others. Nat hadn’t expected that from her former commander, but considering all the trouble she’s gone through to legitimize her position as part of the Avengers, she understands that’s how things are these days. It might have, probably would have, played out differently before Project Insight. Words come back to haunt her, about regimes falling all the time. They seem prophetic now. 

Nat glances up in time to see Melinda step out of the way and Steve go through the door like a man on a mission. Which he is, in a way. He wants to be the one that his friend turns to for learning this new world. The thought of someone else taking that privilege must be eating him up, she thought. She wonders if he realizes how much he’s showing his inner-self. Probably not, her inner voice whispers. He’s used to not showing how much things hurt so he doesn’t have any practice in expressing himself besides on paper. That and to anyone else, it only looks like he’s concerned for an old friend’s well-being. 

Schooling her own face to show only what she wants it to, Nat takes the two steps to the table where Sam and Clint are watching the monitors as well as a football game for one of the colleges that they follow. From the corner of her eye she can see Melinda moving back behind her to where she’d been sitting on the bed earlier, phone in hand. Grabbing a handful of chips from the bowl near Sam’s elbow, Nat steps to the window to see if she can still see Steve.  
From behind her, Melinda makes a sound of pleasant surprise.

“Finally, I think we have a break. One of my former employees is in contact with the girl and he’s asking her to come to him in Chicago.”

“Do you think she’ll go?” Nat asks from the window. She can barely see Steve’s retreating form as he jogs quickly down the road toward the Super 8 where his friend and the driver are staying. 

“Maybe, maybe not. But,” Melinda is off the bed and moving to the electronics on the table, “now that we have another point to use for triangulation, we can get a tracker on their phone communications and stay on her tail, even if we can’t see them.”

Clint takes the phone from Melinda and sets it in the cradle of the tracker that they had taken from Avenger Tower, hooking up the wires to connect it to their computers. Stretching and yawning, Nat turns from the window and makes her way to the connecting door leading to the other room. 

“Well, while you boys help with that, I’m going to get some shut-eye so I can be fresh to drive in the morning.” 

She gives Melinda a smile and winks at Clint as he looks up to watch the door shut on her smiling face. The narrowing of Melinda’s eyes only makes her smile wider. Once in the other room, Nat opens her own phone and taps one of the apps she has hidden in a locked folder. The screen flickers for a moment, then the video link kicks in and shows a dim view of Nick Fury’s body and signs of movement blurring across the screen.

“What have you got for me, Romanov?”

Placing a hand at her throat, Nat begins filling him in on the mission details, using subvocalization to keep anyone from hearing her speak. She sits on the window sill and watches down the road, knowing she can’t see Steve, but still keeping up the act. With any luck, Fury’s group will be here soon and then they’ll have the Winter Soldier and Musicman’s daughter in custody. 

Once that is done, she’ll have a chance to ask what she’s wanted to know for many years now. Excitement dances in her veins as she thinks about confronting these two. The reasons are different, but only in context. Ultimately, it all comes down to clearing old debts and erasing the red. With these two, there’s a lot of red she needs to erase.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Bucky is in heaven. The sensation of warmth, joy, and intense deliciousness is something he hasn't experienced in so long it might not count as a memory. He almost can't believe this is real. What makes him accept it had to be the sound of your laughter at the noises coming from him as he swallows and takes another bite of the pizza slice in his hand.

He'd been excited at the smell of the food when he'd come out of the bathroom. When you'd handed him the slice, he'd had to keep himself from drooling. Even now, he has to stay aware so he doesn't embarrass himself. The fact that the pizza tastes better than it smells, and had so many wonderful tastes to it, makes him even more grateful for you. It’s obvious that he’s gotten lucky, though he has to fight off the shadow of doubt that tries to darken the light he is feeling from you. 

Acknowledgement that he'd hired you when he wasn’t in his right mind made him wonder why the soldier had chosen you. It didn’t make sense that he would have done it just because you were a female driver. Gender didn’t mean a thing when it came to survival and that is what would have driven his choice more than anything else. Perhaps it had something to do with the man that was your father. His reputation was one that the soldier knew, and knowing that could have sparked that recognition of the edge necessary to make this mission a success. So far, it has paid off, as you have stayed on task and stated that you will finish the job. Finishing the mission, to the soldier, is all that matters. You making that promise could have been what he had counted on, especially now that you know he’s being pursued.

Realizing he’s been staring, he grabs more pizza and stuffs it in his face. When all you do is grin back and take a bite of your slice, Bucky doesn’t feel so bad. He grabs the chair from the desk and pulls it over in front of the large screen sitting on the dresser. Assuming it’s the newest version of television, he looks for the button to turn it on. From over his shoulder, you laugh and pick up the remote, coming just into view of his peripheral vision as you push the button on the small unit. The results are spectacular. 

The entire surface area of the glass explodes in color and sound bursts from the speakers to either side, providing stereo sound in a way he’s never personally experienced before now. Enraptured by the sight and sound, it takes him a few minutes to realize you are trying to get his attention. 

“I’m sorry. It’s just, ah, I don’t, um, what?” Bucky grins and blushes at you, arms folded and hands tucked in under his elbows. 

You shake your head, chuckling. He can see your eyes darting over to his arm, then back to his face and feels like you are filled with questions but being the well-mannered person you are, you haven’t asked any of them yet. Either that or you’re still wary of him, especially after what had happened in the Jeep before you had gone in to the hotel for check-in. Thinking of that moment brings back the chagrin he’d felt, though not as much and not with the shame that had come over him at that time. He drops his gaze from you, his cheeks heating up again.

The touch of your hand on his flesh arm brings his attention back up to you. You have a soft, caring look in your eyes as you speak.

“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, Bucky. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, really. It’s just,” he pauses and tries to grin at you, his mouth twisting to one side as his control slips. 

He can feel emotions rampaging through him, causing chaos and confusion as he tries to sort out them out so he can get them under some semblance of control. Shaking his head, he decides to start with the most obvious thing and take it one step at a time. He unfolds his arms and holds out the metal one, the plates sliding and flexing as he straightens it out in front of you.

“Here, go ahead. Touch it.” He waits for a second and when you pause, hand out, chuckles, or attempts to. It sounds shaky to him, but he nods his head at you. “It’s okay, I want you to.”

The sensors register your hand on the plates, the warmth of your skin triggering the sensors to alert nerves and wiring to simulate what amounts to the sensation of warmth in his brain from that touch. He hasn’t a clue how the person who had built this had hardwired it into his brain, but it was positively genius. The way your eyes light up gives him new appreciation of what he still considers to be the worst thing about him, visibly anyway.

Your hand slides up the arm plates, the sensation of your touch following along. Bucky can’t help but grin for real as you continue to smile and watch, your eyes sparking with the wonder. In response, he flexes his fingers and twists his forearm, causing the plates to shift and ripple in response. The giggle you emit is a surprise and he finds it’s a sound he wants to hear again. Your gaze catches his and you duck your head, blushing as your hand slides off his arm.

“Thank you,” you murmur, “for trusting me with your secret. I appreciate it.”

Bucky shrugs and drops his gaze to the bright distraction of the television. He hadn’t really thought of it as his secret, though he supposes that it is. Those that didn’t know him, like the waitress in the restaurant, and the lady at the hotel desk, would definitely be shocked to see it as well as find out what he was capable of. The idea that you were one of the few that knew and that you accepted him, despite it, gives him a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach where he’d only felt a roiling, chilling unease until now. 

You yawn and stretch, your body twisting around like you are going to begin dancing. It wouldn’t surprise him at this point. Instead, you hand him the small wand covered in buttons that you’d been trying to explain to him before, smiling up at him. He can’t tell if you’re being coy or have suddenly gone shy. Too many years have past since he’s had to read emotions for more than just fear or anger. He forces himself to listen while you go over the functions of the wand, which you call a remote. 

After a few more minutes, you’ve left him with the remote and climbed back on your bed. Bucky watches from the corner of his eyes and the reflection in the screen, hoping to catch another glimpse of your legs where they meet the shorts. He knows it’s pervy, but the enjoyment of the thrill is something he hasn’t had in such a long time, he’s willing to risk your ire over it. Your nonchalance and his watchfulness pay off in spades as he gets to watch you straighten out your covers and settle down with pillows behind you and your laptop on your knees. 

With your legs covered and your headphones on, you become aloof, leaving him to mess with the channels on the television. You’d turned down the sound for him, though with his keen hearing, he didn’t need it loud to catch everything that is said. He flips through channels, watching and gathering info, half of him starving for as much information as he can get. The other half is longing for something undefined, something familiar. Finally, something comes up in black and white and he gets comfortable on the end of the bed, pulling the remaining box of pizza over next to him and crossing his legs in front of him. 

\---------------------------------

You breathe a sigh of relief as Bucky finally pays attention to something on the TV for longer than just a few minutes. It looks like he’s found one of the classic movie channels, though you aren’t sure if it’s Maltese Falcon or Casablanca, as you’ve only seen Bogart one time so far on-screen. He had seemed fascinated with all the different channels and had been flipping through them non-stop for almost half an hour now. You didn’t really mind, as you had your headphones on, it was just the flickering of the channels that’s been distracting you. 

The lie makes you laugh even as you think it. You’d had a hard time keeping your eyes off of the man on the bed next to yours since he’d come out of the shower smelling great and looking like a million dollars. The short sleeves of the black tshirt were so tight around his biceps, you wonder if he’d had to stretch them to get them to fit. The metal arm was everything you’d seen in the pictures you’d looked up, and more. 

Thinking about how reticent he’d been to show you the arm brings back the memory of how he’d reacted back in Walmart when you’d wanted to help him pick out clothes. If that was why he’d been like that, you can understand. You’d seen people freak out over stuff not nearly as strange or unusual. It would seem that he’s come to trust you, otherwise he would have kept his arm hidden. The warm glow you get in your core tells you he isn’t the only one that has come to trust unexpectedly. 

The faint ping of one of your phones interrupts your train of thought. Picking it up, you see that Travis has sent you a message, though not through Snapchat, your normal app for communication with him. Suspicions rise as you open the chat to read it.

“Picked up some H activity in your area. Might want to change things up.”

You close the chat and open Snapchat, sending him one word as a reply. “Aight.”

Reaching over to your nearest suitcase, you pull out a pair of sweats and a light jacket. It’s still warm out but this is more in the line of a disguise than for cover. Besides, if something happens and you have to run, you’d rather be in something that can take some wear and tear, not barely covered and lots of exposed skin. You slip on a pair of laceless running shoes and stand up, only to find Bucky looking concerned, standing near the door.

“What’s going on?” He asks in a low voice, brows furrowed. 

“Seems there’s a possibility of some unfriendlies in the area. Gonna go switch parking spots and tidy up the Jeep in case we need to leave in a hurry.” 

Nodding at the bag of money, you give him a tight smile. “Hand me the money. You grab the other cases. Give me a couple of minutes, then when I whistle, bring them out. Now if I don’t, come out locked and loaded”

He nods and grabs the duffle bag holding the cash you and he had cleaned. When you grab it, he hangs on to it for a second, drawing your eyes to his. The look he has is conflicted, a mix of trust and concern, along with a hefty dose of unease. You don’t blame him. It’s easier to worry about someone you trust leaving you in a lurch than not trusting anyone. If you left now, after he had shared so much with you, it would hurt more than if you and he hadn’t become even this close. 

“Don’t worry. I wouldn’t leave my laptop behind. I’ll be right outside the door. Probably nothing but my contact being paranoid.” You wink and chuckle. “Said I’m going to see you to the West Coast, didn’t I?”

His confusion clears and he gives you a big grin. Letting go of the bag, he rests his hand on your shoulder. “Yeah, you did. I’m holding you to it, too. Your word is your reputation, right?”

“Exactly.” You grab his arm and give it a squeeze. You pull out your keys and, grinning up at him, step past him to open the door and slip out.


	14. The point of imminent lockup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [14 Tips for Winter Driving](https://www.outsideonline.com/1920576/14-tips-winter-driving) \- Berne Broudy  
>  Dec 17, 2013  
> Spitzner’s Top Tips For Winter Driving  
> 8\. If you are a well-trained, experienced driver with proper tires, threshold braking is better than slamming on the ABS. Squeeze your brake pedal lightly to the point of imminent lockup but not so far you skid.
> 
> Map: [Super 8 Decatur/Downtown Atlanta, GA - Jackson, MS - Dallas, TX](http://tinyurl.com/y9pw3nw7)

Previously: _[Melinda](https://agentsofshield.fandom.com/wiki/Melinda_Qiaolian_May) jumps up from her seat against the headboard and hops over the end of the bed to land on the floor and rush out after Steve. Her voice can be heard at first, then goes quiet. Clint and Sam both look over at Nat. She rolls her eyes and lounges on the end of her bed, projecting her nonchalance in defense of herself. Another minute or two goes by, then Steve burst in the door and yanks open the connecting door between this room and the other that they’d booked. Melinda follows, sauntering in and glaring at Nat. Stopping next to her prone form, she smacks Nat’s calf._

_“Stop provoking him. You know that’s a sensitive subject.”_

_“Agreed,” Nat replies silkily, looking like a cat enjoying a bowl of cream._

_Melinda’s glare as she folds her arms has Nat straightening up and wiping the smirk from her countenance._

_“If you people can’t take this more seriously,” Melinda frowns at Nat, then shoots a glare at Sam and Clint off to her left, “then I’ll leave all of you here to deal with this mess and go back to my desk. Is that clear?”_

_Affirmative murmurs come from both of the guys while Nat give her a short nod and looks chastened._

_“What’s Steve gonna do?” Sam stands and goes to open the dividing door._

_“He’s going to take a jog over there and keep an eye on things from the parking lot next door. He’ll have a comm so we can talk to him and vice versa. That way, if anything happens, we’ll at least have one person onsite.”_

==========================

Out in the parking lot, you glance around, taking in the various cars and trucks that have filled up the spots since you had last been out here. Spotting a likely candidate, you nod to yourself and head over to your Jeep. Once at the Rubicon, you open up the back door and lift the bottom of the back seat up, revealing a lockbox nestled there. Using the smaller key on your keychain, you open it up and pull out the satellite phone sitting there. Dropping the sat phone over the back of the front seat to land on the cushion up there, you heft the bag of money into the empty spot. 

It doesn’t quite all fit in the box. You let out a groan and sigh, pushing at the overflowing bulges that are hanging over the edges. This was something you’d wanted to get done quickly, mostly because you didn’t want anyone checking on you out in the parking lot by yourself. Still, it hasn’t been but a minute or so, leaving you a bit of time before signalling Bucky. Moving quickly, you open the bag and upend it over the safe, then stack the money as tightly as you can. When you’ve got it filled up, you only have less than a third of the bundles remaining. 

You wrap up the bundles and lock up the safe, then move to the back of the Jeep. There you open the locked cooler and stash the duffle bag in the middle section, except for one bundle of money that you’ve kept out. Finally, you whistle softly, sure that Bucky can hear you. As you circle around to the driver’s side, he comes out with the luggage packed up and his jacket on to cover up his arm. 

He winks at you as he reaches the vehicle. “Almost came out after you.”

With a smirk and a blush of your own, you toss your hair back and take one of the bags. “I had to stash the cash but it didn’t all fit under the back seat, so I had to improvise. Here,” you hand him the bundle, “put this in your jacket pocket.” 

The look he gives you is a curious one. You interpret it as a question. 

“What? You think I should carry that much cash? Are you kidding me?” You chuckle and set the suitcase in the back seat, then grab the next one.

“You’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking.” He gives a chuckle and sets the last bag on the back seat, then closes the door. “You going to move the Jeep now?”

“Yeah,” you answer him, but can’t help looking up at him, standing right next to you, leaning on the Jeep like he’s some kind of model or high school sweetheart. “I figure if it’s in a different spot than here, that might throw off anyone who saw it here earlier.” 

He’s looking down at you now, biting on his lower lip and his hand in his jacket pocket, almost as if he doesn’t know where else to put it. You stand up straighter, leaning toward him more than you would normally, but then normally you wouldn’t be anywhere close to someone this gorgeous, and vulnerable. The thought hits you right in your conscience. Smiling softly at him, you pat him on the shoulder. 

“Well, go on back inside. I’ll be back in a few minutes, k.” 

His blush is as sexy as any of his other expressions. It brings a smile to your face as he turns and heads back into the room. You could kick yourself, but you know in the long run, it’s probably better if you refrain from letting him get to you that way. With the way he’s been affecting, if you let him get close enough to kiss, or more, it’s a dead certainty that you’d be heading for another heartbreak. You have to consider the circumstances as well, you tell the horny bitch inside your body that’s crying and whining with desire. If you let yourself get emotionally involved, more than you already are, it makes it that much harder to cut bait and walk away if, no - when, it’s needed.

By the time you’ve straightened your lusty wench out with a harsh scolding, Bucky has disappeared inside and you are free to finish your tasks out here. Going to the front of the Jeep, you quickly loosen the wingnuts holding your license plate onto the vehicle, then do the same at the back on the empty tire frame. You climb in and start it up, then back out slowly and circle around the parking lot, checking for your intended target and a space nearby. 

The other Jeep is still there, parked near the end of the hotel farthest from the street. Two spaces down is an empty spot that you back into. With Travis’s warning still fresh in your mind’s eye, you want to be ready for a quick getaway if it becomes necessary. Once your Jeep is parked, you slip out of the driver’s seat, license plates and a screwdriver in hand. It’s quick work to replace the plates with your own vanity ones, an aggravation for sure, but necessary if you’re being followed by who you suspect. The other Jeep is black, not the dark green that yours is, but in the dark, it’s close enough to pass. 

You make your way up the slight hill to the hotel and head down the covered sidewalk back to your room. A large man in a sweatsuit is at the vending machines, leaning down to retrieve his purchase. He half-turns his face toward the sound of your shoes on the concrete and you murmur the customary greeting that all Southerners expect upon passing. 

“Howdy.” 

A murmur that could be taken as a return greeting comes from the man, though it’s hard to tell as his mouth isn’t visible from the way he’s crouching. Nodding at the half-seen clean jawline tucked behind the gray sweat jacket, you can’t help but notice the outline of muscles against the sweatpants covering the legs of the man as he squats in front of the machine to grab whatever he’s bought to satisfy his craving. You have to yank your head around to watch where you’re going or risk letting the view of a nice ass get you into trouble, though it wouldn’t be the first time. As you continue down the walkway, you feel his gaze on your own ass and give it a little extra shake to show your appreciation of his appreciation. 

Once back at the room, you slip inside and lock the door behind you. Bucky is back on the end of the bed, watching TV again, an intense look on his face. It’s almost the look of a man watching a feast being laid out before him after years of starving. The comparison is an apt one, you suppose. If he’s been held captive for however many years it was and not allowed any access to anything remotely close to cultures, he probably is starved for stimulation of any kind.

He looks up in time to catch you thinking lewd thoughts about stimulation, which brings a smirk and a blush to your face. You turn and climb onto your bed without offering an explanation, as that would definitely be too awkward. 

“Everything alright?” he asks, his eyes barely turning away from the colorful screen. 

“Yup, got the Jeep moved down to the end of the building and facing outward, just in case we need to peel out of here in a hurry.” Your nonchalance is to cover for the fact that this is a very real possibility. 

“Good.” He nods and turns his full attention back to the movie he’s watching, leaving you to finish up with your nightly routine.

It doesn’t take you long, as you can feel the last of your energy draining out of you in record time. You shut down your laptop and stash most of your phones in your mini backpack, leaving only the one that has your alarms on it out on the nightstand. Refraining from turning on your music and sticking your wireless earbuds in, you crawl under the covers and pass out on the cool comfort of your pillow. Sleep is quick to take you, pulling you into its embrace, only to be awakened a few hours later by a most peculiar sound.

It takes you a few seconds longer than normal to get your bearings. The room is mostly dark, except for the TV, which is showing something in black and white, the people talking in a decidedly old-timey manner. Then the sound comes again, that of someone sobbing. It’s not part of the movie, you quickly decide, which means it’s coming from Bucky. 

You quickly sit up and throw off the covers. By the time your feet hit the floor, you remember not to do anything that might startle him. This could be part of his PTSD and if you moved up on him too quickly, it could trigger him again. For a moment you just stand there, not sure if you should go to him or hang back and wait it out. When he starts to wail, you know you have to do something then or risk getting some kind of report made on your room for disturbing the night time quiet.

First though, you call to him, softly. “Hey, Bucky, I’m coming to you. Don't freak out on me now, k?” 

You move after that as the sobs start again, sounding as though they are tearing free of his body. The light of the TV screen is enough to illuminate the shaking of his shoulders as you step up next to him. Reaching out, you slide your hand across his back, embracing him in your arms. As you do, the sobs clear up, turning into words you can mostly understand. 

“They’re gone. They’re all gone. Mama and pappy, all my sisters, everyone is gone. It’s been so long. How could this be? I’m the only one left. The only one except -”

A gasp of harshly indrawn breath interrupts the sobbing litany of sorrow, followed by words in other languages, mixed up and jumbled together in sentences that probably make sense in his mind. He shakes his head a couple of times, short and hard like he’s trying to clear his thoughts, then switches back to English.

“Steve. Steve’s not, he’s not gone. I saw him. On the bridge. I did see him. He was on the ship. No! No, what did I do? I hurt him, oh God, how could I? I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Stevie. I didn’t mean it. I saved you right? Pulled you out? You made it, I know you did. You’re strong now, like me. Oh God, why?”

The last few sentences are muffled as Bucky grabs you around the waist and buries his face in your shirt just below your breasts. The sobs return, great wracking heaves of tears and gasps of breath as he cries out the suffering and sorrow from the depths of his soul. In response, you wrap your arms around his head and lean down, murmuring softly against the top of his head, not really saying anything except the quiet noises of comfort you remember from your own mother. 

His arms tighten around you, pulling you snugly against him. With his strength, you couldn’t break free of him, even if you had wanted to, which you didn’t. If only for a minute, you pretend this isn’t as strange and unusual as it really is. Cradling his head and smoothing his hair beneath your hand, you can imagine something along the lines of a more domesticated scene. It might be twisted on your part, but when has your life ever been less than weird? Despite their shortcomings, the only thing that your parents taught you that was good was how much they loved and cared for each other. Wanting something similar shouldn’t be too outrageous. 

Telling yourself that doesn’t make it hurt any less when he pulls away from you, letting you loose so he can wipe his eyes and cheeks. His gaze doesn’t quite come up to meet yours as he shakes his head, his long hair dancing from the motion.

“I’m sorry about that.” His voice is so quiet you can barely make out the words. Waving his hand around helplessly, he closes his eyes, a look of regret passing over his expressive face like clouds on a blustery day. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“I’d say it’s perfectly reasonable for you to feel however you want at this time.” You have a hard time keeping the sarcasm out of your voice, wanting to comfort him, not push him away. Not that it’s something you’ve had a lot of experience with in the past ten years or so. “You’ve obviously been through a lot. No one should tell you that you can’t regret your past, or feel sorrow over it.” 

His hands come up and cradle his head in them, his fingers poking up through his long hair as it falls forward to cover his face. Resting his elbows on knees bent up as close to his chest as they can be, he lets out a deep sigh. “I just suddenly felt so alone. I - I -”

When his voice breaks as he tries to describe what he’d been feeling, you want to step back to his side and wrap your arms around him again. You resist, wrapping your arms around your own waist to hold yourself back. Clarity is something you pride yourself on, and right now, as tired as you are, it’s also something that you are sorely lacking. Going to him right now, you feel it in your gut, would only lead down a road that you aren’t sure you’re ready to go down yet. Instead you share words with him, knowing they are poor comfort but can show the empathy you feel for him. 

“I remember what it was like, the first time I was truly alone.” You speak softly, eyes closed as you draw out the memory from where you’d tucked it away. “My mother had died a couple years before and then my father decided he didn’t want to be out on the road any longer. He had me drop him off at Riker’s and told me to drive away and never look back. I did. I drove for almost thirty hours, then got a hotel room, locked myself it in and cried for three days straight.”

You fell silent, the memory of that time still raw in your mind all these years later. Bucky’s voice broke the quiet with a whisper. 

“How old were you?”

“Sixteen, though my license at the time said twenty.” You chuckle, you inner cynic amused at that now. Back then that had seemed like the best joke. Somberly, you continue. “After I got myself together, I went and visited my Granny, knowing she hadn’t been very healthy. It’s a good thing I did, cuz she passed a few months later. She helped me get my head straight and break away from some of the bad things my parents had been into. She also taught me that being alone isn’t a bad thing, as long as you like yourself.”

His laugh is harsh, telling you that you’ve pretty much hit the nail on the head. Knowing the truth of the saying that in order to fix a problem, you have to first acknowledge it, you do reach out this time to pat him on the shoulder. 

“Don’t worry, Bucky. I know you may not think so right now, but I assure you, this can be overcome. You’ll see, it’ll happen. You just have to give yourself some time to heal.”

At that his eyes do finally rise to meet your gaze, his expression open to show his emotions clearly. Gratitude is not something you are used to reading when directed at yourself. That is the main emotion you’re reading, layered over several others that trigger uncomfortable feelings connected too closely to what you’ve been trying to cap off inside yourself. Turning away, you feel a yawn and a stretch coming on and welcome them, glad for the distraction and an excuse to go back to bed.

“Oh, wow. Excuse me. I need more sleep, Bucky. You alright now?” Your effort to keep your voice light and casual seems to have worked, as he lets out a gruff chuckle.

“Yeah, get back to bed, you. Don’t need you sleeping behind the wheel tomorrow.” 

“For sure.” You agree wholeheartedly, allowing your body to flop onto the bed and bounce before rolling back into the covers and snuggling down into the pile of pillows and blankets. Eagerly chasing sleep, you barely hear the TV come back on, the noise of Bucky switching to another station fading to background fuzz as you fade out.

=========================

Bucky once again finds himself exceedingly grateful to have you with him. He had just been watching an old movie and during the commercial break, which there were a lot more of than he expected, the host for the television station had mentioned some facts about the cast and director, along with when the movie came out. It had come out in 1946, two years after the war for him had ended. This had set off a flood of emotions and thoughts about how everyone he had known and loved, fought with and died for, were gone and he was alone in the world.

As if that hadn’t been hard enough on his raw emotional inner landscape, the memory of fighting his best friend while under control of those monsters had returned to taunt him as a reminder that he had tried to kill the only person left alive that remembered him, as evident by Steve’s words during the fight. Those words had penetrated his skull, shook his world until he no longer knew what was truth and what was lies, except, he did know one thing. Steve knew him, and didn’t hate him. 

Now, here is this girl. He knows you are more than a girl, but looking down the long path of time from when he was born and lived until now, you are young enough for him to still call you that. Besides, calling you that kept his mind from other thoughts about you that he isn’t ready to deal with just yet. Especially after you had held him and let him hold onto you while his world shook and rearranged itself yet again. The large shirt you chose to wear as pajamas did nothing to hide your curves and the softness of your body against his face. 

He had realized where his head was resting when he recovered from the sobs that had shaken him and hoped that he hadn’t been squeezing you too tightly. You hadn’t protested any, something he hoped wasn’t due to fear. He has the impression that you didn’t mind his arms around your waist, or his face against your torso. In fact, if he had to put it to words, you probably wouldn’t tell him to get out if he pressed his luck with you. 

These thoughts lead him back to that moment out in the parking lot, where he’d been leaning against your Jeep and you’d been looking up at him, your hands clasped behind your back. The curve of your body as it arched toward him, the tilt of your head as you looked up at him, even the smile touching your lips and lighting up your eyes, all spoke to you being very open for him to kiss you. He’d made the mistake of hesitating for just a second, not wanting you to feel like he was being too forward, and in that moment, you’d pulled back, ending that magical second. 

Thinking about it, he comes to the conclusion that it’s probably best if he didn’t pursue his interest in you. After all, he is being chased by some very dangerous people, not all of whom want him caught alive. The risk of you getting caught up by one side or the other is too great for him to take, or you might be captured and held as a means of baiting him. He’s not sure how he’d react, or so he tells himself. His head believes it, the soldier giving him a glimmer of agreement that you’d be left to your own defenses in that situation. 

Part of him, what could be considered the remnants of his heart and soul, disagree with the soldier. The fear arises that if you were to be captured, the soldier would awaken and make him leave you. With just that alone tearing him up inside, he knows it would not be a pretty situation for him, one that is better avoided altogether. Coming to that decision, consciously anyway, he turns back to the television, hoping to find something to take his mind off the subject and distract him until he falls asleep. 

The whimper comes from you at first so quietly that he almost wonders if he really heard it. Looking back to check on you and make sure it didn’t, he can see the nightmare stealing over your features, turning them from restful to fearful in mere seconds. A cry escapes your lips, almost unheard as your head tosses restlessly back and forth, your body held in the grip of sleep paralysis. Your thrashing grows more as your cries increase in volume and intensity, coming faster now as you fall more fully into the grip of whatever it is that’s tormenting you. 

Knowing he needed to help you break free but without causing you more trauma, he does the only thing he can think of. Grabbing the duvet from his bed, he tosses it over you, then wraps you up in it, holding onto your struggling figure the best he can. When you prove stronger than expected, he takes a deep breath and lays over you on the bed, wrapping his legs around you and holding you tightly against him. Risking you getting free, he pulls the blanket down from your head, then wiggles until his mouth is near your ear. 

You’re full on crying now, weeping and cursing. Your words are a mix of English, Romanian, and a spattering of other languages, much like his had been. He wonders if your moment of sharing had caused this to happen, though it could be also due to your tired state, as it had probably been more than twenty-four hours since you’d slept, by his calculations. Whatever it was, he felt responsible for it and could only hope his tactics were helping. A distant memory of his own mother holding his hand and singing comes to him and he tries to think of a song that he could sing to you that might help.

Words come to him, ones that had given him hope when he’d heard them recently. Murmuring them against your ear, he starts to sing.

_“Hast du etwas Zeit für mich_  
_Dann singe ich ein Lied für dich_  
_Von 99 Luftballons_  
_Auf ihrem Weg zum Horizont_  
_Denkst du vielleicht grad an mich_  
_Dann singe ich ein Lied für dich_  
_Von 99 Luftballons_  
_Und, dass so was von so was kommt_

_99 Luftballons_  
_Auf ihrem Weg zum Horizont_  
_Hielt man für UFOs aus dem All_  
_Darum schickte ein General_  
_'Ne Fliegerstaffel hinterher_  
_Alarm zu geben, wenn's so wär_  
_Dabei waren dort am Horizont_  
_Nur 99 Luftballons…”_ [[99 Luftballons](https://www.thoughtco.com/nenas-99-luftballons-song-4076776)]

Your body stiffens at first, though the cursing stops almost immediately. By the time he’s finished the song twice, you’ve stopped crying and have snuggled up against him, your head buried in the crook of his flesh shoulder. He’s glad he’d laid on his left side, the metal arm under you, as every time he tries to shift positions, you cry out and cling to him as though he’s trying to leave. Even moving his legs brings out more tears, so he resigns himself to laying there and holding you for as long as you need. 

Fortunately, sleep comes over him sooner rather than later and he feels himself slipping away, his nose buried in your hair, your scent soothing him even as he tries not to enjoy the feel of you in his arms, there despite everything you both had done to avoid this very situation. The thought amuses him and he falls asleep with a smile on his lips for the first time in decades. 

=======================

Outside your room, in the darkness and shadows of the cars parked in the spots nearest the building there, Steve sits, leaning against a tire, arms around his knees. He ignores the dried tears on his cheeks, too busy fighting back a feeling he’s never really had to deal with before. He’d waited until you’d gone into the room before finding a place where he could hear Bucky and you conversing and settling down there, ready to move quickly if anyone came along with questions. 

Nothing of any consequence was said at first, though after seeing Bucky’s body language when he’d gotten near you in the parking lot, he could almost believe Nat’s assessment of the situation between the two of you. That’s when the first wave of jealousy had hit him. Well, the second one actually, if he was to be honest with himself. It helped him identify the first one, back at the team’s hotel rooms. Nat had noticed, which is why she’d been so quick to rib him about it. He knew that was just how she was, but hadn’t been in the mood to deal with her right then. 

Still wasn’t, which is why he’s glad to be out here and not back there with the others. No one really understood how he felt about Bucky, especially now that he knew his friend was alive and free from the brainwashing. Now they just needed to let him bring Bucky in. He’s sure that if he can get him by himself, they can talk and get things straight. Once that happens, Steve is sure that Bucky would gladly come with him. After all, they had once trusted each other with their very lives. 

The emotional breakdown had been unexpected, though Steve can understand where it came from. When he had awakened to this modern age, things hadn’t been quite as chaotic, and the surroundings had definitely been friendlier, for sure. The fact that you had been there to help Bucky through that made Steve both glad that his friend hadn’t had to go it alone, but at the same time, it brought out that green-eyed monster even more, knowing that he couldn’t be there for the man he’d worked so hard to save. 

Things inside had gone quiet and Steve was sure he’d be able to handle the rest of the night, but then, with the crying and cursing, he couldn’t help but think terrible thoughts, until Bucky started singing. That’s when he realizes you must have had a nightmare, a bad one, and Bucky had returned the favor you’d done for him and held you until it was over. Now he has the unenviable choice of staying here and beating himself up all night or returning to the room to listen to Nat, Clint, and Sam bicker and harass each other until Melinda separates them like unruly children.

That was probably the easiest choice he had to make all night. Getting a little more comfortable, letting his legs settle into a criss-cross position, he prepares himself for a quiet night, now that it seems like both you and Bucky have fallen asleep.


End file.
